


Drop Some Knowledge

by StringTheori



Series: No Difficulty In Including You [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex Makes Questionable Life Choices, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Building up to happy ending, Fluff and Angst, Genderqueer Marquis de Lafayette, Genderqueer Peggy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not A Happy Ending, Online Friendship, Online Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8572549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StringTheori/pseuds/StringTheori
Summary: 'John falls in love with a guy on the Blackboard forum for his Art History class and simultaneously nurses a huge crush on the sleepy- eyed part time florist across the street from his cafe, has for going on two years.It's not a conflict of interest as far as John's concerned; neither of the guys knows the other (or John) exists save for as the barista who slips Alex extra espressos and debates with Hams about art.John never plans to meet Hams, doesn't even consider it for more than a handful of moments when he's caught up in the snark and the intelligence and Hams ripping apart Jefferson in a way that doesn't quite border on harassment. He also never intends to talk to Alex for more than a few moments at a time, employee to customer, it's just easier and far less awkward.'With mutual pining, irony, coffee shops, clubs, refusal to flirt with employees because gross, overworked children, Blackboard discussions, and more tags to be added as it goes.This is the story of how Hams and Laurens become Alex and John.





	1. Why Do You Write Like You're Running Out Of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missjo/gifts).



> Inspired by a evening talks with my roommate, MIssJo. She's hilarious and accurately dubbed this a 'ridiculously wonderful monstrosity of a fic'.
> 
> So far this is the only chapter that is a message board *only* chapter. The rest are actually written like a normal fic.
> 
> Tags are to be added as the fic goes on. There will be even more tropes because, well. I like them. And this is a challenge. I can't make promises about the formatting.
> 
> (Man I've been out of college for a while.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The best part about university was getting into discussions like the ones below (except face to face).

**Week 1: Welcome and Introductions**  
Introduce yourself to the class with your name, major, reason for taking this course, and a hobby of yours. Respond to a minimum of three classmates in their introduction thread.

 

 **Author:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Oui oui, mon ami  
     I'm J. Laurens and in the place to be. Not drinking just yet because I get off at 3 - part time student, it's not bothering me because I'm like pow-chikka pow-chikka till I'm free. (Also I'm majoring in Social Justice and Defense, hi. Part time for real and I like turtles. In Art History because I also like art. And history.)

 **Hamilton, A.**  
     Did you just try to rap your introduction in Western Art History 201, Laurens? (Nerd. Hi again.)

      **Laurens, J.**  
          Nice to see you're joining us again, Mr. Economics/Business Management/Finance/lord knows what else. Are you prepared to have your opinions decimated by my mad skills?

           **Hamilton, A.**  
               Bring it, Teenaged Mutant Ninja Artist. I'm not afraid of you.

 **Madison, J.**  
     Hi! I'm James Madison. It's good to see a fellow history lover here. I think turtles are great too.

      **Laurens, J**  
          Hi, James. Hurrah for turtles.

 

 **Author:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** Cold in professions, warm in grades  
     A.Ham, brilliant, loud, great, and I'm going to make my mark on the world by practicing my majors of Economics and Business Management with a minor in Finance to do... something. Something amazing. I don't believe in five year plans. I think G. Wash is a great professor with actually intelligent opinions (which is rare, thank you, G. Wash) and the debates in the class on artistic interpretation are amusing. No one who hires me later can say I didn't take a well-rounded course of study while an undergrad. I like to write.

 **Professor Washington**  
     You're quite welcome. Just please remember the rule instated with our last course together: don't find loopholes just to find them or Professor Washington will be painfully specific and ruin everyones fun.

      **Hamilton, A.**  
          I always remember, no worries.

    **Laurens, J.**  
          Remembering and obeying are two different things, Professor. I'm not putting money on both happening.  
          Hams - How the hell are they letting you do two majors and a minor? Do you sleep? How do you do anything that isn't work and sleep more?

           **Hamilton, A.**  
               I'm magic, Laurens. Majorly magic.  
               And they don't let me do the minor yet. I have to make sure I can 'handle the course load' first. I wish I had a gagging emoji to express my opinion properly on this.

      **Jefferson, T.**  
          Is he bringing puns? Make him stop, please, this is a serious class.

           **Laurens, J.**  
               you're funny.

 

 **Author:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** A mind at work, work.  
     Hi! My name is Peggy (she/her or they/them) and I am currently enrolled in the Gender Studies program. I'm also a founding member of the GSA on campus, champion of the debate team, and a 2 nd degree black belt in Karate (Kobayashi for the win!).  
     I've joined Western Art History because knowing how people may have perceived the world from Bonds, gender norms, sexual norms, beauty standards, and class difference is expressed in many forms of art and is super interesting to someone studying all of those.

 **Laurens, J.**  
     We have a GSA?! How did I not know this, I feel as if I ought to have known this. I feel like such a bad queer. Could you send me some details? Is it cool if I join?

      **Schuyler, P.**  
          Oh my god, yes, please join. This is awesome! Message is on the way. Our next meeting is tonight, actually, feel free to crash the party. We love new members (and turtles!).

      **Hamilton, A.**  
          … see, now I am grumpy I have to handle this course load. You kids have fun without me. 

           **Laurens, J.**  
               Will do, dear boy.

                **Hamilton, A.**  
                    what.

 

 **Week 2: Worldwide Impact  
****Discussion Board 1A:** Write a question you think is relevant to the class you would like to see explored as a result of the worldwide impact of history. Please keep in mind that these queries will be used over the course of our term together as a point of interest during related modules. 

 **Hamilton, A.**  
     Why do white people think that they invented absolutely everything having to do with art (and most things)? 

 **Laurens, J.**  
     Homosexuality and artistic suppression: discuss.

 **Madison, J.**  
     Does art influence the way we view history?

 **Jefferson, T.**  
     How did the French Renaissance eclipse all other artistic upheavals and renewals?

 **Schuyler, P.**  
     Early representation of Bonds and what we did with that as humans.

 

 **Discussion Board 1B:** This is the place where you may (and must) reply to at least two of your classmates interests or questions from Conversation Board 1A. Keep in mind that these questions will continue to be explored in later classes.

 **Author:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** No flag, no country.  
     Why do white people think that they invented absolutely everything having to do with art (and most things)? 

 **Laurens, J.**  
     They killed most of the other places they took over and so demonized all of it if they didn't destroy it outright. That, or they whitewash it the same way they did Jesus.

      **Hamilton, A.**  
          God, I love you. Marry me. 

    **Jefferson, T.**  
          You can't whitewash the remnants of an entire culture. If art didn't survive, that's because it wasn't there or important enough to begin with. Look at the Fire Mountains in Namibia - they are just paintings on the wall but they've survived since pre-history. You can't tell me fine art wouldn't survive where those did.

           **Laurens, J.**  
               Yeah, that's paint on a rock wall. Paint. Rock. Solid. Rock that no one is trying to slam down. Rock that people will get even more murdered for if they did because it's actually literally on holy ground. Let's wager how long it took white people to realize that art existed and put it against the reason old things made of ink and canvas didn't survive when rock. paintings. happened to.

      **Madison, J.**  
          Do we have to make this a racial thing, guys?

           **Hamilton, A.**  
               YES

           **Laurens, J.**  
               Yes.

           **Jefferson, T.**  
               No, we do not, he just wants attention.

                **Hamilton, A.**  
                    I'm sorry, are you talking over the Latino immigrant right now?

                   **Laurens, J.**  
                         Puerto Rican second generation yelling from these side lines, what up.

                          **Jefferson, T.**  
                               Are you honestly pulling the race card? Way to go, assume a man's white from an internet forum. Aren't you proud. 

                          **Professor Washington**  
                               Stopping this conversation now, boys. Message me if any of you are interested in making this a thesis project, play nice, and if you have any issues with a classmate, again: I have an inbox.  
                              I promise this is an actual module we'll be looking into. 

      **Laurens, J.**  
          white people killed everything and ruined all culturally significant things they could throughout history. the end. 

           **Hamilton, A.**  
               Preach.

 **Author:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** super good guy bro friends.  
     Homosexuality and artistic suppression: discuss. (And if y'all get on the whole, there's no suppression thing, I might have to wreck something so please don't.) 

 **Jefferson, T.**  
     Yeah, no. This is not something I can answer here. Professor - is this actually something we can explore?

      **Laurens, J.**  
          Out of all the things -  are you saying this is a valid method of exploration of the historic significance of homosexuality or lack thereof? I have a disclaimer in the original post, Jefferson. 

           **Jefferson, T.**  
               I don't think your idea of whitewashing art is legitimate, that doesn’t mean I'm homophobic. You want me to break down why art is suppressed with regards to homosexuality?  
               Bonds.  
                [Read More]

 **Hamilton, A.**  
     Gross. (Jeffs, not your discussion, Laurens.) Everything queer is just how they talked back then or men were more friendly or women didn't have sex (let's discuss the time where they thought lesbianism didn't exist because they DIDN'T THINK IT COULD POSSIBLY BE). There are homoerotic tales of many of the classical artists and yeah, I'm not agreeing with Jeffs at all, but agreeing with Laurens because this is bamf.

      **Laurens, J.**  
          Hell has frozen over.

           **Hamilton, A.**  
               I'm not saying he's right.

   
**Week 4: Italian Renaissance**  
     Discussion Board: What aspect do you believe led to the increase of artists, their popularity, and the evolution of artistic expression? Cite at least three sources to support your theory. Maximum length is 1,000 words.  
     Bonus Points: Get creative with it.

 **Author:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Blood, blood, blood! ... and death.  
     One of the more blatant outcomes of the Italian Renaissance is the heightened realism and humanity within the figures being painted. Someone may assume that this is a simple matter of paying attention to the person that's being painted or sketched - maybe even some actual figure drawing classes and measuring proportions with ones finger or paintbrush was making a comeback.  
     Truth is that your beloved Michelangelo peeled skin off of bodies and dissected muscle tissue, brain matter, and other such delightful things in the pursuit of actual anatomical mastery expected at the time. Think about /that/ the next time you look at his rather brilliant brushstrokes and use of color.  
     He wasn't alone. It's been noted [source] that Michael was, in fact, one of many - he just wanted to be one of the cool kids picking apart recently (hopefully) deceased people to keep up on his art game.  
     Da Vinci and Bandinelli were another duo of anatomical glory. Da Vinci is arguably the most recognized anatomy king, his brain and hand and corpse art-ing helping to bring about something greater than himself. The Doctor Who episode didn't really get it wrong, there. The guy at the museum hit it on the money.  
     [Read More]

 **Hamilton, A.**  
     Is your subject line really a line from Zootopia? The one where the rabbit uses ketchup for blood and dates the fox? That line?  
     On that note, would you prefer I rip into your taste in movies or your subject matter? 

    **Laurens, J.**  
          If you try to tell me Zootopia is anything less than perfection, we can no longer be friends, Ham.  
          Please, rip into the subject matter. It's not my fault you can't handle artistic integrity being created by skinning corpses.

         **Hamilton, A.**  
               One day we're going to do a movie date night and I'm going to show you why you are so wrong about that movie.  
               As you wish:  
                [Read More]

                **Schuyler, P.**  
                    He can't use Zootopia but you go pulling a Princess Bride? Dirty pool.

                     **Laurens, J.**  
                          _Princess Bride is a classic._


	2. Room Where It Happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each morning Alex and John talk in their carefully neutral non-accents, generally far away from the terrible things of 2016. Twice they make the mistake to talk of the upcoming elections as primaries start to loom, the first of which disappoints John almost as much as the Airbender movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion of genderfluidity and the spectrum it's on.

**To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** Inquiring Minds  
     I need a second pair of eyes on this short paper for G. Wash. He's made good on his threats of not finding loopholes before and the _last_ thing I need is another class-wide protest over the restrictions put in place because _one_ of us had an opinion that needed a few more pages than their own.  
     You're pretty good at ripping my hard work to shreds and telling me how to make a Frankenstein's Monster from it. What do you say, buddy ol' pixel pal?

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: Inquiring Minds  
     Sorry about the wait, things have been busy on the not pixel end of the world. I can take a look at your monstrosity of an essay, yeah, mostly because I was a part of that class and how dare you call twenty pages of exposition a few pages. (It was good exposition but sweet Jesus, Hams.)  
     I'm sending you mine in return, heathen. An eye for an eye, an ink for an ink.  
     (Also I might actually literally find Jefferson and gouge his eyes out if he keeps talking about the French Renaissance as if it's the epitome of all things art. STG if Washington asks me to be his beta reader that it will probably really happen.)

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: re: Inquiring Minds  
     You exist!! I have four emails sitting in my draft folder that I refused to send at the risk of being creepy, aren't you proud of my restraint. Glad to hear you survived a whirlwind irl situation/time, even gladder the previous protested paper was good.  
     (Jeffs is the human embodiment of 2016 and is thus _the worst_.)  
     Let the red ink marathon begin!  
     And you better have fun at the GSA for me.

~*~

John falls in love with a guy on the Blackboard forum for his Art History class and simultaneously nurses a huge crush on the sleepy-eyed part time florist across the street from his cafe. By his count, he’s been this pathetic for almost two years.

It's not a conflict of interest as far as John's concerned; neither of the guys know about the other or that John even likes them more than anything past being the best barista Alex ever met and Hams' paper writing buddy.

John never plans to meet Hams, considers it for a handful of moments when he's caught up in the snark and the intelligence and Hams ripping apart Jefferson in a way that doesn't quite border on harassment but it goes no further than that. Likewise, John speaks with Alex for a few moments each morning, sometimes more if Alex lingers, and that's enough for John – asking for more means crossing boundaries and it feels sketchy to even think about.

Alex is a happy start to John's mornings, mumbles and deep black smudges under hooded brown eyes and a need for coffee. He speaks with well-rounded and properly enunciated words, the kind of speech that one practices in the mirror to mask an accent or speech impediment. John knows the signs: the way Alex sometimes catches the curve of his lips before they fully form a word, pauses, changes it to accommodate a pattern not raised to use, how Alex clips the ends of some phrases and doesn't use them again. John does the same; he's not ashamed of his Southern heritage, mostly, it's just that he's short, brown, angry, and loudly homosexual. Living in the North with a South Carolina drawl on top of that is something he doesn't want to deal with.

It's... he dislikes being condescended to. Too many people talk down to others with a drawl.

He understands what it's like to hide your background with a few well-hidden accent shifts.

Each morning Alex and John talk in their carefully neutral non-accents, generally far away from the terrible things of 2016. Twice they make the mistake to talk of the upcoming elections as primaries start to loom, the first of which disappoints John almost as much as the Airbender movie.

"You're a Libertarian?" John says when Alex tells him that April, stares at Alex from over the espresso machine. Alex makes a face, mouth opening, and John continues if only to avoid hearing his excuses. "You're cute but that hurts me. I’m honestly in pain."

"It hurts _me_ that you are so very wrong," Alex says without anger, only superiority. John's not sure which is worse. "There's nothing wrong with being a member of a third party, Jack, the founding fathers even said that a two-party system-"

John never finds out what Alex thinks the founding fathers said because Angelica picks that moment to get to work ten early and Alex fucks off when she leans into John for a hello.

The second time they talk of politics is in mid-July, ass o'clock in the morning with Alex near dead to the world and John happy to ignore the Libertarian bit. He sees Alex and hears a groggy, “Morning, Jack,” and the fact that Alex's party promotes not helping the poor flicks right out of his mind. Alex leaves, Twitter and politics happen and John remembers, lets it fuck him up inside.

The day after Bernie drops from the race and the Libertarians have Gary Johnson (ugh), Alex shows up with a huge button on his satchel that reads 'I'M WITH HER'. He ignores the look John gives him, stares at him over the rim of his to-go cup, and then says, irritable and tired and in an accent John tries to place without success: "A presidential election isn't the time to go starting a third party system uprising, Jack. You start from the bottom. Do revolutions a l'americaine not a la francoise."

"Oui, mon ami," John says without a single attempt to hide his shit eating grin. He misses Alex's curious eyebrow arch.

~*~

So there's Alex. And then you have Hams.

If John has a crush on the former, he is absolutely head over ass for Hams, has been for nearly a year and with zero regrets about it. ... Maybe a lot of regrets. Namely that it hasn't gone anywhere and never will and it's infuriating and sad and he sort of hates himself for being so affected by words on a screen. It's not like he's dreaming of the words on the screen – he thinks – so he tries to think of it as Probably Nothing.

He's been pretty lost from the first email Hamilton sent him, fall of 2015, when John still boasted his status as of a full time student, a full two semesters of mocking one another in the forums and critiquing in a way that makes everything flow.

That first email, Hams called him Dearest Laurens, wrote poetic on how John's pre-law design caused him pain because John so very clearly preferred art, and then promptly ruined the touching moment with something along the lines of 'but if you're going to insist on being a capitalist pig with me, can you check out this thing I'm working on?' Friendships were built on less.

Since then, Hams acts as Laurens editor, and Laurens returns the favor in kind. Essays, final papers (different topics, thank you), sometimes Blackboard responses if they want to rain down extra fury on Jefferson, and three times, Hams sent John articles for the university newsletter that discuss classism, racism, and sexism respectively.

Damn straight John fell for him. Continues to fall? Falling is involved, John knowing good and well nothing good could come of getting to know the kid he wasn't sure he disliked, who always had to talk, acting somewhere between superior and desperate for approval with that mask of not giving a fuck.

John is well acquainted with that mask. Maybe it's not a good idea, certainly not one he thinks he ought to encourage, but it's there.

They snipe and bicker and brutally tear each others work apart only to create individual fucking masterpieces using the notes exchanged. Some of the best times in John's scholastic career involved an intense debate that shifted to defending one another once Jefferson said something shitty. He loves how Hams makes points and doesn't get on peoples dick about typos or grammar, fails to call their professor anything but G. Wash, latches on to opinions like a terrier, tells John that, yes, social justice is important and fuck the bigoted, exclusive haters, everyone is needed.

Two years, four semesters, and absolutely gone for the opinionated idiot for at least half of it.

John dares anyone to blame him for falling for the ridiculous man. He'll fucking fight them. He gets paid to beat people up each week after talking to Jesus, keeps him from from working out his anger problem in other ways, and he'll still fucking fight them.

… He doesn't want to hit Peggy, though, he really doesn't. She's starting to catch on to a possible crush on someone, a someone she probably knows but also may not, a person that he messages or emails but never brings to GSA or their occasional outings or fundraisers. It's only been a month and he hates it when clever people with keen eyes want to be his friend.

“Why are you staring at your phone like a goober?” Peggy leans over John’s shoulder, unperturbed by the close quarters. They reserve a room in the library each week, load it full of chairs and some of the librarians joining them even, bolstering the ranks of the schools Gay-Straight Alliance to nearly thirty. It's... uplifting, honestly, though John guesses he ought to expect it. They live in the great melting pot of their nations capital. “Are you doing _schoolwork_ right now? Seriously?”

John dims the phone with a flick of his thumb, pockets it with a duck of his head. His cheeks grow hot and tells himself he doesn't give a single fuck about the blushing (it's a filthy lie and he knows it.)

“Not really,” says John, his eyes anywhere but Peggy. The room is full of color and interesting things to stare at, prints of paintings and rows of books. John picks a random painting. “I’m just answering an email. Nothing important.”

“I know what the Blackboard app looks like, young man.” Peggy gives him an unimpressed look though she leans away and settles into her overly full beanbag anyway. She tosses a few sheets of paper at John, their bright colors and dark font vivid against his dark jeans. “Who are you emailing before this super important meeting where you come out to the student body?”

“I’m already out, Peggy,” John waves his rainbow bracelet in her direction, gestures to his satchel and its brilliant array of queer and political patches. “I’m so out I’m pretty sure I’ve destroyed my closet. You saw me drunk and singing RENT on the Metro last week.”

“Deflection, I like it. Especially if you're willingly bringing up your stunning rendition of La Vie Boheme,” Peggy wiggles her eyebrows. “Are you making someone cry again? Is it Jefferson? I hope it's Jefferson, I hate it when people have terrible ideals but great ideas.”

“I never made anyone cry, you're exaggerating. We've only been in class for, like. A month, a month in a quarter if you're going by weeks.”

“Right, right, but - Are you and Hamilton ripping poor Jefferson up and trying to make him cry? You didn't say a no to the Jeffs.” Silence. “John.”

“No,” he says. It’s not a lie. “I’d email Jefferson directly to do that.”

“ _Are you emailing Hamilton?_ ” She claps her hands together, delight bright in her voice. “Please tell me you are, your friendship gives me _life_.”

“You’re saying it like it’s something weird,” John plucks at one of the papers. He distantly notices Eliza as she wanders in and drops onto the couch across from him, legs stretching out and a yawn into her hand. “It’s not a crime to be friends with a classmate. I'm here with _you_ , for fucks sake, it's only weird because you're weird.”

“It's true,” Eliza says with a small smile and a kiss in Peggy's direction at her siblings scowl. “You are the best kind of weird.”

Eliza remains the favorite of the Schuyler siblings, the apple of John's eye.

_(“Siblings, please,” she said, hand in his, eyes on John and he already knew he liked her. “Peggy likes female or neutral pronouns but they aren't a fan of being referred to as a sister. They have their 'not lady' days and won't make a big deal of it but.”_

_“Yeah, I got it,” John said, head ducked to try and hide his grin. Peggy and her protective family kicks him straight in the gut, generally a good thing in context. “What about dude, lady, man? That sort of thing?” Then, belated, worried: “Wait, this is the shit I should ask her, right?”_

_Eliza shrugged. “If you'd prefer. I've been given blanket permission to explain as I see fit. Peggy can be... It's not an easy thing to talk about sometimes, people aren't really all that inclusive for the genderfluid.”_

_“Y'all should meet my friend,” John said after a moments pause. “Lafayette. He owns a place called Brandywine.”)_

Peggy hums, all forgiven, flicks her hand up in greeting to the new arrival. “’Liza, sister mine, is having a crush on an internet bestie a crime?”

“I don’t have a crush on— That is ridiculous.” John sputters, his face bright. Eliza arches her eyebrows and keeps quiet. John scowls at them both and turns his irritation to the fliers on his lap, fingers plucking at the edges of the paper. “It’s just talking. I don’t have a crush.”

Both stare, their eyes a heavy weight on him. John shifts uncomfortably, his jaw set, fingers tapping a steady tattoo on his thigh.

“You seemed so smart online,” Peggy says after a moment, mournfully. John huffs, mouth open to shoot back a self-deprecating joke and is silenced as Peggy continues without pause. “You can totally _flirt-_ flirt online. And hook up or want to or get a crush. It’s a legit thing. We even know he's probably on the spectrum, he wants to come to GSA and his opinions don't scream 'straight boy' to me.”

“I thought you have a crush on the coffee shop boy?” Eliza says in a grand moment of erasing her place as Favorite. “The one with the eyes.”

John makes a strangled noise. He's not proud of it and shoves himself back in the beanbag to dislodge Peggy, to really not be a part of this conversation.

“Aw, you're cute,” Liza leans forward, elbows on her knees. John wants to say something shitty and just… can’t, not with how sincere she sounds. “Don’t let Peggy get to you, they’re just jealous that they don’t have a great online romance. It's fun, you should try it.”

“There’s no great online romance.”

“You _love him_ ,” Peggy scrambles from her beanbag to sprawl next to John, grinning all the while. “I’m happy to convince you to take that plunge into wild internet love.”

“Oh my God,” John says, face actually _on fire_. “Humans don’t do that.”

“I hope you’re joking,” says Peggy. “Please tell me you aren’t serious.”

John’s very serious. He very much wants the meeting to start and more people to filter in, now.

“Have you started having dreams in binary? Forum posts? Maybe text message bubbles?” Peggy bats her lashes and laughs when John flicks a pen at her.

“You can't Bond with someone you've never met in person.” John says. He's probably right.

Bonds are established with eye connection, gradually strengthen with time and talking and some sort of contact. Without any of those factors, there's no way Hams can be his.

John distracts himself with greeting the incoming members. He doesn't like that train of thought.

 ~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: Inquiring Minds  
     How was it? Still super jealous. I made myself feel better by putting together a whole paper that outline how you need to fix yours. You better love it, Sir.

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: Different title now hams new topic  
     You are a terrible influence. How dare you write a paper twice the length of mine just to say, hey, this part sucks, this is how you're wrong. Like, seriously? (No, for real, it's killer, thank you.)  
     It was pretty great. You should try to take a break and go to a meeting :) We're five weeks into the year, Hams, you have to come out and be a human at some point before we graduate.  
     …Unless you're planning on skinning people and eating them alive, then rethink that.

~*~

“Morning, Alex.”

Alexander looks up from his phone, mind a bit foggy and sleep still thick in the corners of his eyes, unable to keep from smiling like an idiot at Laurens' words. His heart flips at the fucking smiley face, stomach in knots the second he sees Jack smiling behind the counter.

“Morning,” he says, more of a yawn than anything that resembles words. Jack chuckles, starts to pour him coffee while Alex trundles in. “You're too awake.”

“My bad, I'll try to be shittier tomorrow,” says Jack, who never tries to be shittier. He's said plenty of terrible things that make Alex want to be his best friend for actually forever and in the last two years, there's been a lack of any attempt at self improvement. “I'm not the one who walked in here at five am looking delighted.”

“Yeah, well,” Alex feels his smile kick up a notch. “I'll try to have a shittier morning tomorrow.”

Jack laughs again, pushes him a to-go cup, and Alex does his best to squash the feeling of today being a good day. He dislikes disappointment. Then Jack goes, smiles at him again, their three minute banter begins, Laurens' email in his pocket, heart warm, and Alex can't help but feel optimistic.

~*~

 **Week 5: Essays**  
We are going to have a discussion board as the usual _but_ first, I am going to make the required reminder announcement on the essay you will all be working on for the latter portion of the semester. Please remember to send me in your top three choices of the list below and I will assign on a first-come, first-serve basis. A maximum two students will have the same topic and no, I will not tell you if your topic matches Mr. Hamilton.  
Please email me your choices like actual adults and I won't have to make this announcement again.

 **Hamilton, A.**  
     Awwwwright. Everyone wants to be on my topic level, bring it.

      **Laurens, J.**  
          Pretty sure the opposite is true, Hams.

           **Hamilton, A.**  
              Et tu, Brute?   
              you're just intimidated, laurens, admit it

                **Laurens, J.**  
                    yes, that's exact it. so intimidated.

                     **Hamilton, A.  
**                          I'm proud of you for coming to terms with that.

                          **Schuyler, P.**  
                              are you two going to get a room or do i need to get the hose.

           **Schuyler, P.**  
               I'm with John on this one.

                **Jefferson, T.**  
                    As much as I hate to agree with Laurens...

                     **Madison, J.**  
                         Fourthed.

                          **Hamilton, A.**  
                              You're all just jealous.

                               **Professor Washington**  
                                   Good lad, keep thinking optimistically. 

~*~

Screenshot saved on a computer not belonging to John Laurens, dated 10/10/2015.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** Passion  
     Dearest Laurens,  
     In the year of our Lord 2015, October 10, I find that the fact you are majoring in Political Science wounds me to the deepest core of my being. You speak of art and the soul behind each piece with a passion most cannot find in the most emotional of times in their lives; you delve into the essence of the human consciousness and pull it apart with a dancers grace. Forgo your major and take into hand one that fits your noble heart with more ease.  
     Seriously, Laurens, dump the poli sci crap and do something that makes you this giddy, good lord. I'm in PoSci and Finance cause it gets me all verklempt, it's your turn.  
     But if you're going to insist on being a capitalist pig with me, can you check out this thing I'm working on?

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J  
**Subject:** RE: Passion  
     I'm going to rip down DC and change shit, don't worry.  
     I'll look at it though. Going to the Caps game tonight so give me a few says but I'll get it back to you soon. Is it on a deadline?

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** wait what  
     you like hockey????? barbarian.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the deal: I have up to chapter 4-ish written up by hand that needs to be typed and end up adding or changing scenes as I go so... It's there, just takes a bit to cobble together.  
> Thank you all for your kudos and comments! They made a difficult time much easier and I love knowing it's enjoyed. :)  
> I have used a genderfluid friends place on the spectrum for Peggy. I have their full permission and, yes, we've discussed it at length - both this work and their particular flavor of being a genderfluid person.


	3. Watch As I Sally In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex keeps a bullet journal. It's messy and without the sort of put together air he pretends he has in classes but - it works. Things like his journal rarely pan out, not when it means a steady tracking of an unsteady life. When Alex puts everything into a slapdash, hectic order, he feels in control in a rare way.
> 
> The journal needs short words, nothing flowery. Straight lines, messy notes, bullet points and small doodles of eyes, crosses, flowers, all with little marks on the items he finishes.
> 
> Alex's journal may be the only thing he keeps concise in his twenty- three years but it's his. His, his writing, the works, and it helps to keep in the noise, to harness stray thoughts in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Day, everyone! No matter what you do (or do not) celebrate.
> 
> I have up to chapter five written out and up to seven plotted out but here's the catch:  
> I handwrite most of it first and so I need to type this stuff up before I go and post it. Ta-da~ That is why things can take a bit longer to post than I'd like. I'm aiming for once a month.
> 
> As usually, thank you all for reading and enjoying! Comments and likes and kudos make me so so happy - and it's okay if people do none of that! The hits make me smile as well. :)
> 
> I hope your day is full of good things, no matter what they are.

**To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: Inquiring Minds  
     How was it? Still super jealous. I made myself feel better by putting together a whole paper that outline how you need to fix yours. You better love it, Sir.

  **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: Different title now hams new topic  
     You are a terrible influence. How dare you write a paper twice the length of mine just to say, hey, this part sucks, this is how you're wrong. Like, seriously? (No, for real, it's killer, thank you.)  
     It was pretty great. You should try to take a break and go to a meeting :) We're five weeks into the year, Hams, you have to come out and be a human at some point before we graduate.  
     …Unless you're planning on skinning people and eating them alive, then rethink that. 

 **To:**  Laurens, J.  
**From:**  Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: Different title now hams new topic  
     My dearest Laurens~ If we do meet, do you promise to hold fondness for me still within your soul? Would my words still wrap around your heart with the affectionate magnitude and high esteem I hold for you?  
     Rest assured, Laurens, I subject skinning and eating _only_ to individuals with the request for such activities on their lips. Even then, please know, that I speak of these situations only in the most euphemistic sense to cloak the acts within the shadows of lives ambiguities.  
     I _do_  promise to restrain from subjecting you to the aforementioned cloaked glamour, dearest friend, if your desires remain solely your own. You are safe from pining other from me, the shadowed intimacies and all that it entails.  
     (aka yeah, def, hit me up with the schedule. I'll make it work somehow and your skin is safe. Do you drink? We should grab one.)

~*~*~ 

 **To:** Professor Washington  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: Paper  
     NATIONAL MUSEUM OF AFRICAN AMERICAN HISTORY AND CULTURE. _G-WASH_. You _do_ have favorites, this is the BEST. You mentioned going to your office and snagging some sweet sweet tickets? 

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Professor Washington  
**Subject:** RE: re: Paper  
     Mr. Hamilton,  
     My office hours are Monday - Thursday, 5pm - 8pm and Saturday from 6am - 8am.  
     Come by whenever you'd like, please make sure to bring a photo ID with you. Your student ID will work just fine.  
     Kindest regards,  
     Professor Washington  
     P.S. First come first serve is not favoritism, young man. It is merely rewarding those eager for their subject and have the means to do so. If someone truly dislikes their topic or cannot get their top three from the list provided, I always offer an alternative closer to their liking. 

 **To:** Professor Washington  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** Semantics  
     That's a fancy way of saying 'yes, I have favorites, my favorite.'

~*~*~

 **To:** Professor Washington  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: Paper  
     When should I come pick up the ticket? Do your office hours from earlier this year still stand?  
     The only reason I ask is that I've had hours change without warning before with other courses; I work full time and usually need to take off work to go in. 

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Professor Washington  
**Subject:** RE: re: Paper  
     John,  
     My hours are the same. If you need to come in at another time, I am more than happy to take the ticket with me to a lecture if you would like to drop in there. Let me know the day and time you'd be there.  
     Should you worry your studies may suffer due to your work schedule, please come and speak with me either in person or through email. I understand how difficult juggling so many things can be and just how trying it is for a person of any age to do so.  
     Best regards,  
     G.Wash 

 **To:** Professor Washington  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Paper 2.0  
     Thank you, Professor. I promise to come to you if that happens.  
     I'll see you Monday at 6pm, we're good.  
     Thank you again,  
     John

~*~*~

Alex checks his phone too often in the days following his little quasi-love poem to Laurens. His battery dies at an alarming rate and he's certain he fucked up.

Like, by a lot.

"You're sleeping less than usual," Aaron says two days into Laurens' odd silence. He's sprawling on his bed opposite to Alex, papers everywhere in a complete opposite of the image he projects to the world. Pampered little rich boy he may be but the fucker is as big a slob as he can get away with before being actually gross. It's mostly papers and clean clothes gone unfolded.

Alex likes that about him.

"Yeah, I'm busy. What of it?"

Aaron pauses, though Alex isn't sure why. It's not like Alex is the sweetest guy out there, especially not on school days.

"Go get some coffee, Alexander. I want some and you clearly need it." He flicks Alex some money, unconcerned. Alex would give more fucks at the offer if not for the deal they struck at the beginning of the year. He gets the coffee when it's during the day and Burr thanks him for it by paying for said coffee.

Alex makes a face and stuffs the money in his pocket. Jack doesn't work afternoons. It's less enjoyable without him.

~*~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** papeeeeer  
     holy ugh. I dig my assignment but the day G!Wash could get for me _sucks_. Middle of the week and with an early start time. Rearranging shit for the win.  
     What have you been up to? It's been, like, three days, man.

~*~*~

Alex keeps a bullet journal. It's messy and without the sort of put together air he pretends he has in classes but - it works. Things like his journal rarely pan out, not when it means a steady tracking of an unsteady life. When Alex puts everything into a slapdash, hectic order, he feels in control in a rare way.

The journal needs short words, nothing flowery. Straight lines, messy notes, bullet points and small doodles of eyes, crosses, flowers, all with little marks on the items he finishes.

Alex's journal may be the only thing he keeps concise in his twenty- three years but it's his. His, his writing, the works, and it helps to keep in the noise, to harness stray thoughts in his head. It goes something like this:

  * Paper (Gentrification, 10/8)
  * Paper (TrickV Economics, 9/3)
  * Forum (Art, 3 posts)
  * Email Laurens (?)
  * Food (buy)
  * Food (make)
  * Shower



Simple, short, sweet. He's only one of those, means his journal can be all three. Alex carries it with him, black, 8.5"x11", graph paper, edges fraying and the book itself near to full. He already knows he'll need a new one by Christmas - it'll be a great New Year gift to buy himself.

"Your book is going to fall." Jack says one morning as Alex wrestles with his coffee top. It's fucking a week into the quiet and September sticks to Alex's neck, keeps the constant feeling of gummy summer on him even at five in the fucking morning in what should be _fall_. (It also might just be proximity to Jack the Barista, the sort of reaction that follows from a morning of humidity on thick, curling hair and the promise of heat in the mid-90s. Alex doesn't want to know.) "Let me get the lid, man."

"I'm an adult," Alex says with a frown, not childish in the least in his protests. Jack arches his eyebrows and Alex reluctantly pushes the cup towards him. He distracts himself with getting his book back into his bag.

"I like the rainbow highlighters." Jack clips the lid on with a final soft noise of triumph.

Alex looks down at his satchel once more, at the various colors decorating the pages of his journal where it still peeks out. He likes to highlight the pages based on what they're being used for, so he can tell at a quick glance what goes where and how it does so. "My bullet journal?"

"Yeah?" Jack says, smiles too wide for the hour, offers Alex his cup back still brandishing said smile. "I don't know what that means but yeah. Also, here, have a coffee."

Alex takes the cup with yawned thanks, realizes two seconds too late that he's missing a conversation opener, that Jack likes his _rainbow sharpies_. The rainbows? The flash of color for the grossly liberal customer? It's too early to process this shit, to talk, let alone try to comprehend Jack almost-trying to talk about things that will take more than five seconds. Possibly.

"Thanks," Alex says again. Yawns again, even, though it ruins the moment.

Jack laughs, so that's a bonus at least. Alex is going to be so late for work and can't even care.

"See you later, Alex." That smile, _fuck_ , that smile.

"Bye, Jack. Until the dawning of a new day."

Alex leaves the coffee shop to the sound of Jack laughing.

~*~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** week 2??  
     Sorry if I was too flowery there, dude, in the email about hitting up GSA. I get carried away when caffeinated. The heat doesn't help but it's cooled to a comfortable 88F these last two days.

~*~*~

John...

John puts his phone away.

He goes to work, goes to Blackboard on his laptop, at home, doesn't check at work for two weeks, posts as he needs and keeps his eyes from his email.

Hams likes to job. He flirts with almost everyone, John, knows this. It's not a _thing_ with him, especially not with _John_. They'd bantered before in the free talk part of the forums Washington set up in hopes of fostering friendships or something. John tries to never take it seriously.

He's not sure what to do with the fact he's in love with fucking pixels on a screen or how it kicks him in the stomach each time he remembers Hams doesn't mean it and John can't bring himself to cross that line.

Two weeks bring a total of two anxiety attacks, a few days worrying he might fall into a depressive state again and battles as best he can, feels relief when it's just a rush of disappointment rather than the soul crushing dark thoughts he's on medication for, and a phone that keeps its charge all day.

He's not sure when Hams says 'let's meet next week' and 'my dearest, Laurens'. The whole thing twists Johns stomach in a way he shies away from, an oily, sick feeling that sticks to the back of his throat, leads the way for anger at his own way of thinking, brings him to offer more classes at the ring he works at each Sunday.

By Thursday he has extra cash, tax-free, and a split lip to show for it.

On Thursday, he puts his head in his hands, leans back on the counter at 7am, and groans.

"I'm in love with a guy," John says out loud. "I'm so fucked."

He looks at Angelica through spread fingers. Several customers look back from their tables, expressions ranging from amusement to curiosity. Angelica only arches her eyebrow.

"That's nice," she says. "Your Blackboard boyfriend?"

"I-" John chokes on his words, frowns on the way his chest squeezes, threatens to strangle if he's not careful. "I don't _want_  him to be. It's weird. Peggy says it isn't but she's not the authority of what isn't weird."

"I hope you remember she's my little sibling." Angelica throws a towel mottled with coffee stains at him. It hits his chest. "I mean, she is weird. And _you're_  weird, Laurens. What happened?"

John hunches in on himself, tries to tuck close, be smaller. It's futile, he knows it, but it's always worth a try. "He wants to go to GSA meetings. Like, he wants to rearrange is schedule to do it. It's cool, I'm not going to tell him what he can or can't do."

The eyebrow flicks upwards again. "But?"

"I don't know if- he flirts a lot. I don't want to be, be creepy by taking it for," John waves a hand in the air. "You know."

"Face value isn't a bad way to live your life." Angelica ignores the irritated glare he shoots her. "What did he say?"

"Among other things? He wants to get a drink. And he called me dearest Laurens."

"The cad."

John shrugs. He tries not to shuffle his feet, does anyway.

"There - Angelica, there was a comma in it. Dearest, comma, Laurens, comma after talking about what a hearts _affectionate magnitude_  before making euphemisms about sex. Like, what the actual fuck."

Angelica pauses, a question on her lips. John scowls, bristles with the silence of Angelica choosing her words carefully.

"I refuse to believe you're angry about this, John. Honestly, you moon about this guy." He's sure she rolls her eyes. It's an Angelica place to roll them. Her own _affectionate magnitude_ drips from her words. John hates her a little right there.

He settles with scrubbing the counter with the rag she threw at him, viciously so and not overly effective with it. Angelica sighs.

~*~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** Pout whine  
     I don't know why you're leaving Hams out there to yell at Jefferson alone (and with me) but it's not glorious of you to keep silent on the claim that there's no Chinese influences in Persian Islamic art.  
     I know he kind of freaked you out or something, whatever, that doesn't mean Hams can google faster than Jefferson can type and I _know_ you've studied early Islamic art and the influence of outside cultures. On a weekend. For fun.  
     Get over it and help us out, it's been like three weeks’ loser.  
     heart you ex oh ex oh.

~*~*~

 **Week 8: Religious Art - Influences and Execution:** Read chapters 12 - 14 and the materials below for this weeks subject. Choose one of the three religions and time periods discussed for your post. Describe what you believe to be the most influential aspects of absorbing foreign artistic methods and how it carries through today.

Maximum of 1,000 words and please feel free to use the word 'execution' in any manner you see fit.

 **Author:** Jefferson, T.  
**Subject:** Islamic Influence on European Art  
     Early disclaimer, y'all: don't try to tell me there's no Islamic shift in the art of the 8th - 19th century, you won't win. I mean _you_ , Hamilton.  
     [Read More] 

 **Hamilton, A.**  
     I'm curious as to why you'd think I'd debate the validity of Islamic art on anything, Jeffers.  
     I'm also curious as to why you insinuate Islamic art was in no way changed by other cultures even earlier than the migration to the European art scene. (I like the vague shit on 'European', like it's all the same.) 'Isolation birthed the unique blah blah blah'?  
     What, are you not going to cop up to the Chinese push in Persian Islamic art? That there was the whole shift that helped with the movement of Islam to Christian 'Europe'?  
     Do you think Aisha was a trophy wife and did nothing to help with the religion and culture too? She was just a woman and young and all.

 **Jefferson, T.**      Reply to Islamic Influence on European Art  
**Hamilton, A.**      Reply to Islamic Influence on European Art  
          **Jefferson, T.** Reply to Islamic Influence on European Art  
               **Hamilton, A.**      Reply to Islamic Influence on European Art

                     **Jefferson, T.**  
                          [Read More]  
                         TL; DR: You're wrong as usual. Stop looking for things that aren't there.

 **Hamilton, A.**  
                              Oh my god, I can't even.  
                              Going to write a paper on how you fail jfc.

 **Laurens, J.**  
                              Stop it, Jefferson.  
                               [Read More]  
                              Mic drop, ty.

~*~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** Help Seriously  
     Hey Laurens,  
     G*Wash wants me to get some help making this shit better for the weeks essay thing and you're the only one who knows how to reign in my rambling and make it, you know. Better. Help please?  
     I've attached it just in case. No worries if you're too busy or whatever, it'd just be nice to hear from you again. Also, I super need help with this - _I_ don't think it's rambling but obviously, I am wrong on that.  
     ttyl,  
     Hams

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: Help Seriously  
     Life went haywire there for a wire, friend. My bad and I am back.  
     Of course, I'll look it over. It's time to return the ripping apart favor.


	4. Oui Oui Mon Ami

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To: Laurens, J.  
> From: Hamilton, A.  
> Subject: 101 problems + my paper aint one  
> Holy shit and salutations. Okay, unexpected, cool, but that is some Lifetime original movie Hallmark special ‘Family Stone’ stuff, Laurens. Did it go okay? Are you okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for the wait but I just took a look at word count and this particular chapter is almost half the length of the entirety of the first three combined. 
> 
> This particular chapter is dedicated to Alex! Thank you for your kind comments and encouragement through this wait. I hope you enjoy this one as much as the previous ones. :)

Colors leech from the edges of his dream, soapy watercolors that blur and soften. The concept of alone sits at the back of his mind as a concept, something foreign and not entirely formed.

His tongue forms words with meaning and intent, English in his mind and Spanish in the air. Profane Spanish, a spat out _“Pato?!”_ and a single freckled fist against a cheekbone without the same pattern of the hands. Bony knuckles flex, nails short and red at the cuticles, freckles still up to the wrist.

The world ripples.

French, slang, slippery and bitten off, a bastardized twisting of something with cut off words and long vowels framed by long hair and scarred, long-fingered hands. No freckles, only the small lines of old scars that do not speak of self-harm. Ink smears the knuckles instead of blood and he doesn’t think he knows that sort of French, tries not to summon the angry emphasis of the words that turn to blurry smears of ochre in the air.

Maybe he can’t speak the imperfectly perfect Spanish?

Maybe – the universe melts. That, at least, is normal.

He sees words, illegible save for a single fact:

They’re typed.

~*~

**Message received at 7:27am, October 7th, 2016**

_"Good morning, Jack. I imagine you're busy at work or school, so I’ll keep this message brief. Don’t worry - no one is hurt, your brothers and sister are fine. I'm calling for a favor. There is a function on New Year Eve for a local LGBTQ charity that I have been asked to attend. The Rainbows of God, I'm sure Jemmy told you about them when you were here last. I know you may have plans while you're in town but as you happen to be both gay and Christian, I felt it appropriate if you were to come with me. Are you still dating Andre? Bring him as well. Call me back, son."_

**Message deleted**

**  
**

**Message received at 2:43pm, October 7th, 2016**

_"Sorry for not catching you, Dad. I work at five, just got out. I guess you’re in a meeting? Presidential year, always meetings. Glad to hear that everyone is doing alright. With New Year - I'm not really into the political moves that aren’t loud marches and protests? The last time I went to a fundraiser thing - you remember what happened. Andre is complicated. I'll talk to you later."_

**Message deleted**

**Message received at 7:28pm, October 7th, 2016**

_"You have never been a platform or a political device, Jack, just as you are under_ no _obligation to do this. I highly doubt you're going to come out to me a second time at the Republican National Convention, though I_ do _worry about you voicing your opinion on the electoral college again. Should you change your mind, let me know. I’m sorry about Andre. What about your little French friend?"_

**Please press 9 if you would like to-**

**Message received at 9:37pm, October 7th, 2016**

_"I’m – Yeah, I’m sorry, Dad. I know about the politics and not being a move on it. All of that. I'll go, it'll be fine. I'm not bringing Lafayette and they're Canadian. Why did Jemmy just text me about a speech? Do I have to write a speech? Dad? Fu-"_

**Message saved**

~*~

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** help. h. e. l. p.  
     So. I have to write a speech by December 31st. My dad is doing a thing for gay Christians that help provide shelter and food and counseling to LGBTQ+ people, focusing on youth and raise awareness and money for the Trevor Project and shit. Because _I’m_ the gay Christian son, he invited me, then my brother told me they were looking for a speaker or two and then my other brother volunteered me for it. I don’t know why _he_ didn’t offer but, ugh.  
     Thus: I need to write a speech about being a _gay Christian_ and _college_ and shit like that. I'm not the best at speeches, I’m not even that good of a gay or Christian or _student_. Will you please read whatever steaming pile of Bible and word vomit happens to fall out of my fingertips and make sure it doesn't scream 'I'm hating this'?  
     help meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee  
     yrs., laurens 

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** Calm your cheez-its  
     Breathe there, man. Deep breaths now. You have like, months. At least weeks. You got this. And yeah, you know I'll rip that shit apart for you. It's my favorite hobby. I guess you’re okay too.

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** ih8u  
     You are the best/worst human I’ve had the privilege/misfortune of speaking with. Writing with? That. Yes. Okay. Thank you.  
     I _hate_ public speaking. It always devolves into swearing and flailing. I once ended the whole thing with me coming out very publicly to my wealthy Southern father and his peers at the GOP. You can probably find it on YouTube.  
     It was a fun Thanksgiving that year. 

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** 101 problems + my paper aint one  
     Holy shit and salutations. Okay, unexpected, cool, but that is some Lifetime original movie Hallmark special ‘Family Stone’ stuff, Laurens. Did it go okay? Are _you_ okay? 

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** newb  
     Sorry. It was fine. He's okay with the queer thing. Part of why I’m not a full-time student is because he gets the whole 'too much stress makes Laurens violent and depressed' thing. He's still not aware that I'm taking classes he wouldn't approve of, though, so that's a fun lie to keep up. I just, you know, pay for those my own damn self like the angry queer liberal I am.  
     It looks like word vomit is my natural state. I'll send it to you soonish. Thanks again. 

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** nah bro  
     Don't apologize, J. It's good, I get that whole anger and depression stuff and what it looks like in the mirror. If poli-majors aren't fucked up, who would be? We should become jaded before we enter the adult world to better act as soul sucking leaders of the world. You're in good company.  
     _I_ think I'm good company, anyway. Others may disagree. (You better.)

~*~

 **Author:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Week 8 - Religious Art, Influences and Execution  
     One of the things I've noticed from the various pieces we've been talking about this week is that sometimes the sepia palettes ebb and flow. Hamilton pointed out that some artists paint the same faces repeatedly - and I agree, it's probably not just because they liked their cheekbones.  
     What I thought was interesting is that the faces increasingly involve those faces going from portraying side characters to the focal point of a painting. From woodblock to mosaic to Botticelli, you can begin to see the muted colors akin to Bond dreams seep in and the faces of their loved ones everywhere.  
     Given that an early sign of a Bond dream is confusion between (sub)consciousness while in the dream, it’s easy to see why past artists wouldn’t immediately allocate the new dreamlike shift or content to a Bond until they began to picture defined features such as ones’ face.  
       [Read More] 

     **Hamilton, A  
**           Are you suggesting that some of the most influential pieces in history were slowly hanged to fit a Bonded dream and ideal? Why some of the otherworldly beauty turned to realism? LAURENS. Dissertation, plz. 

          **Laurens, J.  
**                :) If only that went with my major, Hams. I’m p. sure it’s been done to death? But thanks.

~*~

The Saturday after Harry Laurens hauls John through the coals of parental guilt and political nothingness, John still feels dead inside even after he reminds himself that soon, he can whine at Ham and talk to Alex. He hates the kind of surprises his father seems to enjoy doing after the reveal in front of his conservative fucks of a friend group.

Thinking that is unfair, John knows it and John will care after he's done feeling sorry for himself and those carefully uncultivated plans he refuses to make towards the holidays. Once he's finished with the speech about Jesus or whatever, John will care. There should be mentions of his sexuality, right? That's what the freaking Rainbows of God are about, per his little brother and the internet.

John mopes those first five minutes instead of acting like a productive member of society, lips tight and thin, shoulders slumped. He has another ten minutes’ worth of self-pity before Alex swings in and brightens the whole fucking place. The loud rattle and chime of the door jerks him violently into the present and out of his usual routine.

Johns Saturday mornings don’t include the lean, strong figure of Lafayette, his part time boss and full time pain in the ass, wonderful, glorious friend. They're a force of nature, a human tornado that somehow decides that John is worth running over on a near-weekly basis.

Texts and near-weekly visits are things John relies on, more than he likes to admit. Granted, said weekly basis hasn’t included five in the morning on a Saturday, their long legs bare from mid-calf to upper thigh, all boots and fluffy skirt just long enough to prevent an incident exposure charge. Their hair clouds about a ridiculously handsome face, their make-up on point save for a smudge of lipstick a different shade than theirs at the corner of their mouth. Somehow Lafayette makes a fitted cardigan look like a shirt; John knows just how well Lafayette wears almost anything and manages to pull it off as fashion.

"You are here!" Lafayette beams at John, not drunk enough to mask the gleam in their eye screaming _mischief_ ’ and just drunk enough to smile with more teeth than usual. "I am so _glad_ , Jean! Do you have any plans?"

John looks down at his pale blue apron and its pink cupcake logo, the same pastel shade of his elastics for hair and wrist. His sensible black shoes squeak with each shift of his weird. Lafayette heaves an unenthusiastic sigh and matches Johns unimpressed stare with their own.

"Work," John says dryly. Lafayette pouts and props their elbows on the counter. John reaches out and smooths some hair from Lafayette’s forehead. He continues to speak, voice a bit softer at the edges. "Don't ask questions know you're going to get, Gil. It's five in the morning."

"Six past," Lafayette says. "You are cruel, my dearest darling. I meant _later_ , Jean, tonight."

John rolls his eyes half-heartedly. Lafayette rests their chin on their knuckles, beatific smile in place. John switches to textbook French for the sole purpose of making Lafayette laugh, the precision of it at odds with the Quebeqois cadence of his friend. It’s early enough for John to have spoons in hand to humor them with.

"I have homework. There’s also the blow I have stashed away and my secret porn cache to work through." John grins. Lafayette sticks out their tongue. "No, but seriously, my brother volunteered me to give a speech on being gay and Christian so it's going to be a bang-up night at my apartment, full of obligation and guilt."

Lafayette snorts. "Come out with me. I will be awake by the time you get away from the apron, call me."

"You haven't _slept_?"

"I own a club, I never sleep, I _catnap_. What do you take me for, a heathen? Besides, Brandywine _misses_ you desperately. Come give her love. It isn't the same without you." Lafayette purses their lips, complete with kissing noises and a shimmy in the skirt. "Come home to me, my heart."

"You just missed my tight jeans," The door swings open with another rattle and ding, both noises that switch John back to English with a glance. "Welcome to - Alex! Good morning."

"Hi." Alex says slowly. He shuffles inside, letting the door clang shut. His dark eyes flicker between Lafayette and John. John ignores the furrow of Alex’s brow and how his hand flexes on the worn satchel at his side in favor for straightening the cup full of straws.

Lafayette turns and returns the look at full force with a curious arch to his brow. Alex snaps out of wherever his head was, blinking rapidly and offering Lafayette a small smile of greeting. John _knows_ his own smile dims along the lines of itself, put off guard by Alex and his uncharacteristic behavior.

"The usual?" John starts on the drink without pause - if Alex decides to walk away without another word, never to return, at least Lafayette will have something to keep them up before they get home. It's easier to concentrate on the movements and rules, rather than dwell on the way Alex remains quiet, tucked in, awkward still.

"Alex?" Lafayette says, something like realization in the single word. They dig their claws in with the tenacity of the very tired and cheerfully defensive. "You should come tonight as well, mon ami. Jean and I will be there. No worries on cover. What is your last name? I'll tell my bouncer-"

"Ignore them," John half turns to glare at Lafayette, for a second, quickly gone in favor of smiling at Alex. Alex edges up closer, looks at Lafayette up and down once more before he smiles at John. _Finally_. "Lafayette here needs to go to sleep rather than harassing my customers."

"It's hardly - oh, fine." Lafayette sniffs and points at John. "Tonight, Jean. Be prepared. Alex, a pleasure, and I will still tell the doorman to look for a young Alex with long hair and dark eyes. Brandywine. Jean is a terrible dancer and a wonderful Knight."

"Thank you?" Alex's eyes follow the direction of Lafayette's finger Lafayette whirlwinds out of the shop with a flurry of air kisses in Johns general direction and the rattle-chime of the door. His eyebrows press closer together, smoothing before Alex looks at John. "He seemed nice?"

"They," John says. "Or them. Neutral. But yeah, they're nice. Sleep deprived, the living embodiment of an overenthusiastic puppy, but nice. Usually"

Alex nods, shifts in place with a flicker of his tongue to his lips. John does _not_ notice. It’s creepy to notice. …He’s going to burn in hell. "They. Jean?"

John blinks at Alex, uncomprehending for a few seconds. He laughs, shoulders hunched in an awkward shrug. "John. It's French-John, they're from Quebec. John is my first name. They started calling me Jean once I let on I knew French."

"... Your name is John Jack?"

"Just John. It’s a family nickname. Dad came with me to get coffee my first day of school and he called me Jack. I applied, Angelica remembered me, so... I'm Jack." John shrugs, his smile sheepish. "I answer to both. It's fine."

"Huh," Alex drags his eyes over John, slow, from crown to waist and back again. John ignores it the best he can in favor of taking Alex's money and making change. It doesn’t stop the way his face heats up. "You look like a John."

"Thanks?" John laughs and drops the change into his hand. "You look like an Alex."

Alex smiles at him wryly dropping a tip into the jar. "Thanks, I think."

~*~

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** SO NOT COOL  
     Laf had to go and invite Alex to Brandywine tonight and that's my CUSTOMER, PEGGY D:  
     LINES. CROSSING.  
     Fuck ker-fuck damnit _Lafayette_.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: SO NOT COOL  
     Then invite Hams, make out, and it won't look like it was being creepy at your customer at all. Come on, Laurens, think outside the box. Or you can bang him and still e-date Hams.  
     Actually, that’s the best outcome I think. 

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**To:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** wait wait wait  
     You underestimate how terrible and awkward that would be. You should come, though. It’ll be fun, I’ll probably only fight like one person. 

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** wait wait hahaha  
     You’d rather hand out with me than either of your boy crushes? I worry about you, Laurens.  
     I'll be there at 8.30, you better be too.  
     p.s. we have each other’s regular emails why are we still using blackboard.

~*~

Alex hates running. There are only two reasons he believes in moving that quickly:

  1. Zombie attack and everyone is going to die
  2. Animals at the zoo broke out and everyone is going to die



The third reason of good grades in Phys Ed disappeared once he graduated and clawed his way to an inland uni. He’s nearly twenty-five, prefers scooters over walking, and almost anything to _running._

The day he meets Jack's - John's - friend, Alex runs. The need to get the fuck away from there kicks the pace up, coffee in hand, thick and sticky air too much like the island clutching at him. Some miracle keeps him from spilling the ridiculously hot drink down the front of his shirt.

His skin is too tight for his face, stretched over bones as if wind burnt. There's no reason or rhyme for any of it. It's okay. He's fine.

The small constants in his life are no longer – well, they’re no longer the constants. Laurens’ still strange, has been for weeks and John appears with ridiculously attractive persons in a revealing outfit on his counter, cooing and squirming. He's good. All of it is good. The mid-term check-ins went well, his grades are… acceptable, it’s obvious John is open-minded and not some bigoted fuck. Alex is fine.

He’s _so_ good that he doesn’t even kick the door to the flower shop down. Maybe there’s a sharp shoulder check but it isn’t a kick and he’ll deny it to his slang throwing, annoying, loud mouthed grave.

"Holy shit, what is wrong with you?" Are the first words out of Herc's mouth as soon as Alex elbows his way in. Alex makes a face at Herc, his head visible over a tall sunflower, is petals curving along his strong jaw. "You look like you're going to puke, kid."

"You look like a fairy princess," Alex says with less snark than he'd like to admit. "I'm fine."

"That’s a compliment, pipsqueak," Herc pushes the sunflower's pot to the side, far too easily his uniform stretching tight along his shoulders. He eyes Alex. "Are you going to throw up?"

"I might," Alex says. He’s not joking and the mortification sinks his stomach. "I don't know why."

Hercules snorts, breaching the distance of the shop in four large strides. He puts the inside of his wrist to Alex's forehead. "I think your jeans are going to burst into flames, you liar. You're all red."

Alex hunches his shoulders, making sure to keep his head still to keep from dislodging Herc's hand. "I think the coffee shop guy has a - partner person? And I’m not infatuated but I’m kind of fucked up about it?"

"Coffee- Oh. The one with the hair." Herc looks over Alex's shoulder as if he can peer into the other building just down the block. Alex’s sure he _can't_ but it's Hercules Mulligan: The Awesome Flower Guy. He can do a lot of things. "You're all sad about it. Did you ever think to ask him about it?"

The noise Alex makes sounds far too much like a dying whale to be normal. He shrugs his bag to the floor, using it as an excuse to lean away from Hercules’ hand. "I don't want to violate the employee/customer social contract. Being _that_ _guy_ is creepy."

"Jesus, Alex. Just mention that his boyfriend seemed nice."

Alex looks at him blankly. Herc throws a gardening glove at him.

"Haven't you ever - you know what, don't answer that. I don't want to know."

"Partner. Neutral pronouns," Alex says, much to his friends’ disgust. He distracts himself with pulling an apron on, tying it around his waist. He's not _invested_ in the whole John thing. The crush disorients him with how it blindsides, leaving Alex confused in ways Laurens’ silence didn’t. It’s kind of fucked up.

Comparing them is fucked up, anyway, not the weird quasi-crush on the barista.

Alex wants to tuck up close to Laurens and talk about everything, declare disgustingly flowery things, enjoy long mornings. With John, it’s more along the lines of curiosity, to see if his hair is as soft as Alex imagines, to count all the freckles from crown to heel and run his tongue between them.

Yeah, it’s fucked to compare and contrast, especially if mixed with the want and Alex is so very aware.

"His whoever invited me to their club, which wasn't awkward at all.” Alex says, shaking his head in a vain effort to clear his thoughts.

“Which club?”

“Brandywine?” Alex shrugs. Herc brightens up immediately.

Herc smells of soil and Memorial Day roses, his pride and joy, and he hauls Alex in close. Alex whines, cheek to Herc's armpit, shoulders at him without success. It's easy to give up and lean into the embrace, so he does.

"Do you want to go?"

"No," Alex tastes the lie on his lips same as he feels anticipation twist in his stomach. "I'm used to yelling to get noticed, not showing up at a club to get drunk when someone doesn’t want me to."

Herc opens his mouth to say something just as Alex's phone buzzes four times - a message from his Blackboard app. Alex hates himself a little in the scramble to grab it.

~*~

 **From:** Schuyler, P.  
**To:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** OPEN ME ASAP HAMILTON r i g h t n o w  
     If you don't have plans tonight, you’re going out with me and Laurens. He's a shy bumblebee + super awkward so I'm the one extending the invite.  
     Brandywine, it's a queer club, near the Verizon center. Get off at the Chinatown stop on 13th. 9pm.  
     I'll be in bright blue and a matching bow in my hair! IDK what Laurens is wearing, probably some flannel stuff.  
     Be there or I’m calling you a republican.

~*~

"We are going to Brandywine tonight," Herc says, tone bordering on gleeful. He leans over Alex's shoulder to read the message, grin bright despite huffing protests. "Don't say you have to study. If you study too much, you'll learn nothing. Forget about your coffee boy! You'll finally get to meet your online boyfriend. It'll be cute."

"Please don't call him that,” Alex says, eyes on the screen a split second more before he turns the screen off.

Herc grins. "Or you can email your dearest Laurens and ask him if it's okay for you to meet him. Peggy invited you. Barista babe's lover person invited you. Come on, let's go have fun and meet your internet pals."

Alex pulls away with another whale noise. It's easy to busy himself with the flowers, allows him to take several small steps from Herc and his words. Alex keeps his hands busy, flicking this way and that without doing anything. Although he's only two feet away, it's enough to keep Herc at bay and Alex's irritation, silent.

He's not shy. He's never been _shy_. What the fuck.

“You’re silent. _What?_ Out with it, good God man.”

"Last time I mentioned a meeting, Laurens didn't talk to me for almost a month," Alex hunches his shoulders again, chin down and anger simmering in his breast, hating how small the situation makes him feel. HE doesn’t want to be around John is Laurens is there, cute barista or not. Alex wants the intangible and it’s too fucking early in the morning for feelings. "I'd rather not fuck up like that again."

Herc says nothing. Alex fidgets.

"It's better if I study," Alex says after a beat. "There's a million things I want to do-"

"We're going to Brandywine," Herc says, blunt and firm. "My treat. Tonight. Study tomorrow. Don't flirt with your Laurens but meet him, okay?"

"Herc-" Alex stutters to a stop, sucking in a deep breath to summon all the courage he requires to be himself, to be loud, to be everything he needs to be. "Shit. Fine."

“Just be your loud, obnoxious self instead of this woe-is-me mess. You’ll charm his pants off.”

~*~

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** ok  
     see the subject. @9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering what John meant by spoons, I recommend googling 'The Spoon Theory' or going to But You Dont Look Sick. (Can I link to an outside website? I'll look into that.) 
> 
> Long story short, the spoon theory uses spoons to turn a persons daily emotional/mental/physical energy into something you can actually hold. Someone who has a disability or chronic illness - both physical or mental sorts - only have a limited amount each day. Brushing your teeth can take a spoon. Taking a shower is another spoon. So on and so forth. On days where you wake up with only 10 or 15 spoons, days are... very long. My headcanon of John is that he is a Spoonie, like myself, and that's something we'll be exploring later in the fic.


	5. Quit Your Sword My Friend [2015]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To: Laurens, J.  
> From: Hamilton, A.  
> Subject: RE: re: re: Question  
> Let me know if you need to talk about anything, my friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are emails from the earlier days of the Laurens/Hams friendship.  
> PLEASE NOTE: Warnings for discussion of suicide, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, and coping mechanisms.
> 
> Disclaimer: I have Anxiety, Depression, and a few other things. The stuff discussed in this chapter are based on my own experience and do not reflect the entirety of the Anxiety and/or Depression spectrum, nor do I claim that everyone will have experienced the feelings expressed in this chapter. 
> 
> I wrote this in like an hour at work because I can't do confidential stuff when stationed up front. I hope y'all enjoy!

**To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Question  
     You seem to have it pretty together. How do you manage to do it? I'm trying to work part time and full time student and I think I'm legitimately going insane.  
     I need your magic, sir.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: Question  
     I don't sleep, drink far too much caffeine, and stay far away from a normal social life. I'm pretty sure my Bonded is going to be my laptop. It'll be a beautiful asexual relationship.  
     What's up? Don't go legitimately insane, I hear that's awkward for all parties involved.  
     ... Unless you have a chemical situation or something. In which case: that's not insane. Chemicals, like all science, sometimes need to be tweaked with.

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:**  RE:re: Question  
     Ha, I like that. Chemical situation. It sounds way better than 'disorder' or some shit.  
     I'm fine, don't worry.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: Question  
     Let me know if you need to talk about anything, my friend.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: Question  
     Hey, Laurens - you're sounding pretty down these last two weeks. Are you alright?  
     Let me know, okay? I'm here for you.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: Question  
     Laurens, I'm worried. Like, seriously. Please just let me know you're still breathing and eating and shit.  
     Email me, hell - here's my number, text me, call, something, anything.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** I'm not mad at you, not disappointed, nothing bad, please read this  
     I've had too many people die on me already, J. Laurens, and I'm only twenty-three, so for the love of everything holy, PLEASE let me know you're alive. It's been almost a month, Washington doesn't know where you are either, here is my phone number: 760-111-1757  
     I swear to you, I'm not angry. I'm not disappointed or sad, nothing negative, I'm just super worried about you.  
     Please let me know you're alright, that you're alive.

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** sorry  
     Im alive, A. Hamilton. Sorry. Very alive, I just had to make some changes.  
     I promise Im alive. Didnt mean to make you worry.  
     who died?

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: sorry  
     Oh my god, thank fuck. Thank fuuuuuck. I am so so glad you're still kicking it, jesus fucking h christ, you little shit, Laurens.  
     My mom. She got sick. And my cousin. I found him after he killed himself, left me, my little brother, his girlfriend, and his kid without a note or will or whatever the fuck.  
     Keep my number. Call or text or something next time, okay? Any time. I never sleep, I'm a fucking battery powered school robot.  
     You want to talk about the changes?

 **To:**  Hamilton, A.  
**From:**  Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: re: sorry  
     I lost my mom a long time ago. It's shitty the same happened to yours, and your cousins situation. I won't do that. Okay?  
     Dropping out of full time status. I'm keeping the online courses this semester and taking the hit with the others. The school was surprisingly understanding. Professor Washington is letting me make some assignments up. Could you help me with some of the edits to them when I'm done?

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: sorry  
     I'll help you any way I can, dude.  
     And okay.  
     :)

  
~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** SUMMERTIIIIME  
     Hey are you doing a summer semester? Shit is boring without your emails and I know you're skittish as shit with sharing your info.

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** psh.  
     I don't really have a normal email? Honestly, I get anxious about it. You know my .edu, though, feel free to hit that up.

 **To: Laurens, J.**  
**From: Hamilton, A.**  
**Subject:** looool  
     yessss

  
~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** This is fucking awkward  
     How do you battle anxiety and panic attacks?  
     I'm asking for a friend.

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** No its not  
     Take deep breaths and remember that it will pass.  
     Just keep breathing, know that in SC there's a dude seriously concerned for you and that you're not alone in the whole anxious/anxiety world. I got you, okay?  
     You want me to call?

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** no nope  
     dude all i'd be able to manage right now is garbled bastard french and sobs but thank you.  
     sorry, sorry sorry. okay. It's all good. I'll be good. It's fine.

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** yep yep.  
     Don't answer your phone.

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** more yep.  
     I hope you don't mind the voice message of me rambling in random Spanish. I hope the lack of understanding the language and just listening helps. Stimming is a thing, just breathe. Think of a square. follow the lines of it. Each time you hit a corner, take or let out a breath.  
     Right?  
     Keep your hands from your mouth and it'll all be okay.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** you are my favorite.  
     thanks for answering your email, laurens.  
     you have a nice voice

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** it's all good.  
     I'll help you in any way I can, dude.  
     And thanks. :)

  
~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** Offline  
     Hey hey~!  
     Going offline for a few weeks, don't fret, all is well. I'm putting together shit I need for a proposal/continuing scholarship thing and that means going off the grid.  
don't miss me too much and I'll talk to you again with the new semester.  
     Disclaimer: Feel free to text or whatever if you're feeling down and stuff. I'm keeping the 4g on, just not the social media stuff.


	6. I Wish There Were A War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't remember most of the fight.
> 
> By all rights he should, John bloodied his knuckles on this bros face, left them bruised and scraped up for days after. John usually knows better than to aim for the cheekbones - they hurt like a motherfucker, too sharp on equally bony knuckles, bones meant to hold up eyes and support muscles for the jaw. He remembers the ride in, getting to Brandywine.
> 
> It's not as if he got drunk - half a drink in and a cheek-kiss from Adrienne is hardly enough to fuck him up. No, just.
> 
> Just -
> 
> Here's how it happens:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It lives! Y'all may notice that some tags have changed and that it officially going to be seven chapters. The last chapter is actually all planned out and partially written. Never fear - a sequel is coming that will focus more on a lot of the tropes that were only glanced over in the first part. There will also be a Peggy one-shot between the two.
> 
> Not sorry for all the Caps references. The season is about to start in this fic but it's playoff time on this end. I'm in full Red, White, Blue mode.
> 
> Warnings for violence, menstruation mention, racial slurs (stated to have been said, not typed out), homophobic slurs, and Alexander being Alexander while John is being John.
> 
> ETA: As of 7.19am on 4/18, I added some content to the backroom scene.

**Ham-Bo-Bam**  
     PEGGY WHERE ARE YOU COFFEE SHOP KID JUST PUNCHED A DUDE FOR MY HONOR  
     HOW ARE YOU MISSING THIS.

 **AAAAND Peggy**  
     for the sake of flying monkies, did you do to make a coffee kid punch someone in your honor  
     ...  
     Wait. Hamilton, what do you mean by 'Coffee Kid'?

~*~ 

John doesn't remember most of the fight.

By all rights he _should_ , John bloodied his knuckles on this bros face, left them bruised and scraped up for days after. John usually knows better than to aim for the cheekbones - they hurt like a motherfucker, too sharp on equally bony knuckles, bones meant to hold up eyes and support muscles for the jaw. He remembers the ride in, getting to Brandywine.

It's not as if he got drunk - half a drink in and a cheek-kiss from Adrienne is hardly enough to smudge his memories like that. No, just. He was _angry_.

And the colors-

Here's how it happens:

The metro single-tracks it, shuts down Vienna _and_ Dunn Loring, leaves John to start his evening sandwiched between a very dirty window and a girl with maroon hair wearing a Rock the Rainbow shirt in the Metrobus. Things could be worse – West Falls Church is still open, she’s not a Flyers fan, and they shoot the shit about DC sports and politics.

Somehow, he missed the video of a presidential nominee talking about grabbing people between the legs. It’s… not something John thought he’d learn that evening but honestly, he ought to have expected something to go on while on the metro. At least he’s not telling the girlfriend of a drug dealer how much he likes her neon-pink Converse or getting into an argument with a minor-league referee Colorado fan about whether his favorite player is a goon.

“What in all the fucks,” is all he says to the video. “What in the _fuck_.”

“Right?” His new friend thumps her head back on the seat, nose wrinkling. “I swear to God, if we vote that in, I will literally burn the White House down and paint it pink again.”

John huffs a laugh. He tries to shift against the window for a more comfortable angle and, when he fails in that, slouches. “I think this is the part where I say, ‘not all men’ but the fact that anyone is still voting for him tells me that it’s _enough_ men to represent _all_ men.”

“Aw, you aren’t like all those other guys,” she says, flicking her phone off with a grin. “So endearingly clumsy and are you going to stare in the mirror to tell the world what you look like?”

“Did you just _Mary Sue me_?”

Theodosia ends up handing her phone to him after the twenty minutes of close quarters and talk. “Don’t get any ideas,” she says, “I’m taken.”

“I’m gay,” is his retort, distracted with texting himself from her number. “And there’s been no signs of an exception with longer pronouns so far.”

They ride to Metro Center together, John having to dash for the red line catch his ride towards Dupont while Theodosia laughs and waves. He squirrels into the train seconds before it starts to close, manages to wedge himself against the wall and a rail for a handhold. It presses cold against his thin black button up, his undershirt doing little to help. Everything fits like a second skin from shirt to jeans, his large boots the only clunky part about him. Three quarter sleeves do little to help with the chill.

The city buzzes and moves, people decked out in anything from evening gowns to chains and leather. It’s early enough for everything to still be open, the shops busy with forward thinking citizens thinking of water, toothbrushes, energy drinks – everything and anything they might need to last the night. John watches it all, pleased with his city and settling in his own skin, aware that the too-tight clothing camouflages him even more.

This is especially true come Brandywine. Music threads out of the partially opened doors, bouncers at the ready. Brandywine’s known for being openly queer and protective of its own, Lafayette well known around the area for their donations and activism. People mill about, laughing, smoking, talking, all clustered near the entrance, some with clever fake I.D.s they hold tight in nervous hands. You can always tell.

“Evening,” John wiggles his fingers at the bouncers on duty as he walks into Brandywine. Not having to pause outside’s a perk of working there, even if just part-time, as is garnering the attention of the lead bartender once he sidles up.

“John!” Adrienne kisses John on both cheeks, leaning over the polished bar top to do so. She’s reaching into her pocket before he has time to lean away, her other hand still cupping his cheek. “Did you not wear eyeliner just so I would do it for you again?”

John shrugs and puts his elbows on the counter. “I can’t do it as well as you.”

Adrienne laughs, soft under the beat of the music. She reminds John of a butterfly: long, dark hair wispy around her face, falling from the messy bun, her hands small and precise during the quick application of eyeliner. Her long sleeves pool at her elbows, the dark blue fabric sheer against her tan skin and matching the ornate eyeliner she used to decorate her cheeks and temples. She beams at him, her thumbs smudging the corners of his eyes.

“There,” she says. “Now you are beautiful. I have missed your pretty face, John.”

"I’ve been tired is all. I promise. Lafayette is - You know I'd tell you if something were wrong," He ought to tack an ‘again’ to the end of the sentence, doesn’t, and Adrienne kindly doesn't correct him. "How have you been?"

“Busy,” Adrienne says with a wave of her hand. “Tired as well. No rest for the wicked, non?

“We can at least be tired and drunk?” John bats his lashes, putting more weight on his elbows.

Adrienne scoffs and pats him on the head. "You won't be getting drunk tonight, mon ami. You never relax when you do. Lafayette has something else you will like better - but this blue one is for you, enjoy."

John doesn’t have time to ask what she means by the blue one before Adrienne pushes two double shots into his hands. One is bright green, the other cerulean. Adrienne waves him away one more time and bustles off, leaving John to his own devices.

A familiar voice abruptly rises over the din a few seats down, offended and angry enough to give John pause.

"Did you seriously just _not all men_ her? She's not interested, you biphobic, misogynistic _snail_. You do realize you're in one of the biggest queer spots in freaking _Dupont_ , right? That's a thing you're aware of? 'You haven't had the right dick' is the kind of thing the Cheeto running for office would say on tape with a Bush, holy shit," There’s a pause and a muffled, lower voice. John drinks his shot without grace and, after a brief second of contemplation, drinks Lafayette’s as well. Then: "No, I _won't_ shut up, I talked through laryngitis, like I give a yabout a Neanderthal telling me to- _Fuck_!"

There's something ironic about John making sure the shot glasses are safe on the bar scant seconds before a large man stumbles into John, spilling his beer all over himself and John.

"Sorry, dude, my friend is - Alex, you okay?" John grabs hold of the bar with one hand and helps the now alcohol free patron right himself. John can see arms as large as a tree wrapped around someone slighter, supporting them the way John tried to support the giant.

The smaller person, Alex, presumably, snarls. "That asshole _shoved_ me-"

He wrestles free of his friends hold, this Alex - Alexander, John realizes, his customer, the one who decided to go to Brandywine after the uncomfortable morning run-in. His usually verbose Alexander wheezes in lieu of normal breathing, face red, small glasses askew, all while still trying to squirm free of his gigantic hulking friend, teeth already flashing with a ferocity to match his tone.

As attractive a sight as it is, John keeps (most of) his attention on a guy maybe two feet in front of Alex with fists and a scowl, a young woman behind _him_ flushed and furious, gripping her drink with white knuckles. John’s dimly aware of the sounds of a coworker making their way to the front, probably Augustus, but all he really hears is Alex rough breathing and the remnants of a slur curling the other man’s mouth.

“Red, what the hell are you doing, man?” Another bro pushes from the crowd and grabs John’s new mortal enemy, Red, by the elbow. “Come on, dude, stop it, not fucking cool.”

“Eat me, Torie,” Red shakes him off, glare dimming in intensity a notch. “I’m here because _you_ wanted to come out of Narnia and we’re doing that You Can Play bullshit. This goddamn fairy- “

Torie tightens his hold, blotchy face paling under the flashing lights. Alex gapes at Red, has since the Narnia shot, and starts squirming in earnest once more. “You _unmitigated_ asshole!”

John grabs Red before he can finish the sentence. Sure, Red has half a foot on him and at least twenty pounds but he doubles over with John's fingers twisting his collar and John's fist in his stomach, just like all the other people John's fought in the past.

"We don't allow that kind of behavior in Brandywine," John says through gritted teeth, yanks at Reds collar to haul him away, towards Probably-Augustus, and is moderately successful. They shuffle a step or two, Red coughing and righting himself, and all hell breaks loose.

In his defense, John’s never punched someone and had them recover within a minute. He’s not expecting the fist to his upper thigh, not enough knuckle for dead leg, enough for his knee to give way, nor is Red wheeling back, out of breath but angry about it, an expected outcome.

He hits harder than John previously thought. He's big, pissed, and full of adrenaline from the initial punch but half the men John spends his time punching fit that bill to a T. They’ve never retaliated to the thigh, stood up, and returned punch for punch with the speed Red does.

John doesn't duck, doesn't think he should or can amidst the disbelieve, and he realizes this error in judgement a split second before Red punches him in the face. Torie grabs at Red and throws him off balance enough to clip John in the jaw, rather than break a lip and bloody his teeth.

Red shoves him off again, harder, and buries his hand in John’s hair while works to right himself. He’s had his hair pulled plenty of times and is well acquainted with someone pulling his head back, pressing him closer in a fit of passion. There’s only been a few times in a fight, their numbers low enough where, yes, it’s another surprise and it _hurts_.

It’s only fair for John to fight dirty in return. See, here’s the thing: people with dicks don't usually knee other people with dicks. It's against the dick code most learn without really talking about it, first on the list of taboo shit to not do in a fight. Fighting can often be described as posturing and insults or, in cases such as Red and John, torso and face hits, occasional leg or arm.

John thinks _fuck that_ and proceeds to jerk his knee up, hard. Red’s face drains from rage to something gray and terrible. He pulls his fist back, the world blurring at the edges, and goes into the rest without thought.

He remembers arms clamping around his elbows and pulling him back, Alexander's hulking friend and Torie hauling Red away and out, all of them smudges of color and noise. It takes at least a group effort to wrench John from Red, according to what he learns later. Lafayette shoves him into the backroom, forces John into a chair with a cold towel pressing to his face. A second set of footsteps follow them in, sticking to the side of the room as the world returns to John.

“Fix him,” Lafayette says in clipped French to the other person. It’s all they say before Lafayette walks back into the club. John hears the loud music, the laughter, their fight forgotten enough for others to return to their party. The door closes and the lock clicks.

John groans and leans back in the chair, hand to his face to keep it in place. The second person moves back and forth, moving things around, periodic buzzing cutting the silence. John waits for them to speak despite his mess of a face and the telltale pound of his skin ready to unleash the full force of pain. There's blood in places he can't remember blows landing, all of him electric in pain and adrenaline.

"I'm not drunk," he says to whomever stays back there with him, that shuffling, silent presence. "Just got a little fucked up."

"I'm pretty sure you fucked him up worse."

John pauses, blinks under the cloth. "Alexander?"

~*~

 **Ham-Bo-Bam  
**      okay what do I do for someone whose face got royally jacked

 **AAAAND Peggy**  
     the coffee kid got messed up for you?  
     Find a first aid kit, smarty pants.  
     Clean up that sexy face, tell him you want to blow him, and make sure he has bandages or whatever.  
     Also, that he doesn't have a concussion.

 **Ham-Bo-Bam  
**      I'M NOT GOING TO BLOW HIM PEGGY, HE'S BLEEDING

 **AAAAND Peggy  
**      so you won't have sex with someone who's bleeding?

 **Ham-Bo-Bam**  
     1. That better not be a menstruation joke from you, young human, there is a difference between that and someone getting punched in the freaking face  
     2. of course i'd have sex with someone who's bleeding but it's SITUATIONAL  
     3. First aid kit!! Found it brb

 **AAAAND Peggy  
**      Go get 'im, I'm stuck in this godforsaken hellhole we call the metro.

 **Ham  
**      Kill single tracking with fire. (Except not really, those things actually burst into flame.)

~*~

"I'm pretty sure you fucked him up worse," Alexander thumbs through the first aid kit propped open on his lap. He's balancing on a stool in the breakroom of a queer club with John the Barista bleeding on a chair, washcloth on his face, and Alex has no clue how to go about things other than cleaning the face, putting on Band-Aids, and ibuprofen.

"Alexander?" John sounds surprised. Alex chooses to ignore the insinuation that he'd not at least check up on the busted barista in favor of finding antibiotic stuff, cleaning supplies, and band-aids.

"Your French friend thought I knew how to clean you up for some reason," he says instead, because that's so much smoother and not shitty. "You didn't have to do that. I can defend myself."

The washcloth flutters with John's laugh. "Had him on the ropes?"

"Eat me, I'm not Steve Rogers." Alex lifts the washcloth slowly from John's surprised face. He's stupidly hot even with the right side of his face swelling and lip split. Alex can sort of understand the appeal of hockey fighting in that moment and honestly is not altogether sure how he feels about that. "Thanks, though."

"Why not? I'd be a pretty good Bucky. Don't like, throw me off any trains, okay?" John's hands clench into fists on his knees, his jaw tight under Alex's touch. Alex knows from experience just how different it is to have something laid on top of a wound and to have that same thing then rubbed over it. He... Yeah, he isn't eager to trade places with John at all.

"Don't have to," Alex says, his touch gentle while he dabs the blood from John's face. "You already look like you did that."

"Fuck you," John says, smile crooked. Alex wants to kiss it.

He _doesn’t_ , okay, he just licks his lips and cleans up John’s face the best he can. John remains blessedly silent for the duration, eyes half shut. Alex does not think about how John glanced at his mouth or how that glance lingered before his eyes hooded. John’s beaten up (and glorious), he doesn’t know what he’s doing or who he’s looking at.

It takes Alex about five minutes to rid his face of blood and grit, another five for the disinfectant and the Band-Aids and bandages. He glances at John's hand and hesitates, unsure of the furl of warmth in his stomach. The intimacy of the moment doesn't go without notice, nor does the uncomfortable knowledge that even if Alex spent ten minutes face to face with John, there is something infinity more trusting in the care of his hands.

"Your hands," he says, haltingly. "Do you want me to do those too?"

Alex gets a wince of a smile and wry, "Knock yourself out. I'm at your mercy." It's less than encouraging but John's a snarky shit on his best days, the normality of it settling Alex's nerves a little more. He slides his hand under one of John's, palm to palm, fingers curling loose around his, and takes a deep breath. He won't think about the heat of the knee on the back of his hand or the dry, heavy press of John's palm on his.

"I don't remember-" John's words cut off in a hiss, flinching into that first brush of pain on his knuckles. His hand tightens momentarily around Alex's and sucks in a deep, shaking breath before it relaxes. "I - God, that hurts. How long was I fighting? I only remember up kneeing him in the groin."

" _Seriously?_ " Alex looks up at his face, a quick glance to affirm John isn't smiling, anything to indicate a joke. "You missed a lot. Like, him getting you in the face again sort of a lot. You literally  _boxed his ears_ Little House on the Prairie style and I'm fairly certain your knuckles got this way on his teeth instead."

"Oh," John seems to sink in on himself, voice softer, smaller than before. "You okay?"

Something terrible squeezes tight around Alex's heart. "I'm fine, just winded. You got to him before he did anything else."

John turns his head to regard Alex from under his lashes. He squeezes Alex's hand again, slowly and deliberate, clearly intending to kill Alex with how much Alex wants to lean in and press his lips to that stupid forehead.

"I like the glasses. You look good," Alex goes red. He opens his mouth to reply, hands frozen both under and over John's, but a flurry of muffled activity outside the door pulls his attention away from John and his shy tone.

"Tabarnac!" The word rings out through the door seconds before Lafayette hurries, their hair flying every which way. Serenity broken, John’s eyes snap open, his body tensing. "John Jean Laurens, what in the world were you thinking, attacking a patron like that?"

The blood drains from Alex's face a handful of seconds before he realizes _why_ his body freezes up and skin feels too tight, temporarily distracted by Lafayette's outfit and displeasure, by John's hand on his, his on John's. John - but Lafayette's accent is thicker when they're upset, at least when they say what Alex presumes to be John's name. He’s sure he didn’t hear _Laurens_.

"He shoved a patron," John retorts, his eyes cutting to Alex. Alex can't feel his face, doesn't know what expression he has on, but it's enough for John's beseeching look to fade to disapproval. "And used a homophobic slur _after_ being a dick to another patron while apparently being a misogynistic homophobe."

"Bi," Alex says. His voice is thin, vague even to his own ears. The sound of his own heartbeat may drown it out but he doesn't think so. "Biphobic."

"We are lucky he does not sue," Lafayette reaches out and taps John's uninjured cheek twice, just sharp enough to make a point. "We are lucky you are a short, not-straight brown man and very soundly won that fight, because otherwise he _would_ call the police."

"What, he doesn't want to report that he was laid out by a huge dude twice his size with full facial tattoos?" John sneers. “Or maybe if his frat party took him down for that Narnia thing? I hope no one tells him about my Sunday side job.”

Lafayette's lips thin. " _Yes_ , Laurens. That would be most unfortunate."

"I have to go," Alexander stumbles back from them, his hands away from John, behind himself in search of the doorknob. The washcloth falls to the floor with a wet sound, lies there forgotten in his need to flee. He's clumsy, throat tight, and likely looks as panicked and ill as he feels if the matching worried looks he receives are any indication. "I'm fine, just need to- I have to go."

"Alex," John - _Laurens_ reaches out, his knuckles still scraped and bloodied, eyes wide. "I don't think you should-"

Laurens' hand scalds Alex to the core, a stark difference to how soothing it was only moments ago. Alex jerks away, the revelation too fresh and raw, leaving him scrubbed over. The grounding force of his academic career being the same consistent presence as John the Barista, knowing he _cares_ and bled for Alex without knowing he’s Hamilton is too much. There's no coping, no calm, no plan. Alex just _can't_.

"I'm _fine_ ," he repeats with more force than he feels, pushing away his inability to cope with his defense mechanisms of lying about being fine and running to plan or make a list. He can’t do this without panicking, can’t freak out here with them, can’t do anything. "I hope you feel better."

Lauren's doesn't touch him again, only looks at Alex as if he hurt him more than the marks on his face. Lafayette says something Alexander doesn't hear, words that Alex leaves behind in his scramble from the back room.

Herc materializes, forever the hero. Alex is dimly aware Herc must have waited for him and can't even thank him for it, not yet. He needs to go. Herc reaches for Alex, wraps an arm around him, pulls him in with a, "Fucking hell, you look like someone just kicked _you_ in the dick."

"I need to leave," Alex's shaking, just one more thing to be ashamed of later. Herc steers him immediately towards the exit, pulling Alex along even with Alex's plaintive, "Can we please leave." as if they aren't already.

On their way out, a person with a bright blue vest and matching leggings pushes past them. A ribbon of the same color tucks some of their hair from their face, all delicate features and worried furrow between the brows.

Alex keeps walking.

~*~

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** That was a shitshow  
     Well… last night happened and you should probably be not overly disappointed that you missed me. Laurens got into a fight too, I didn't catch your not-lovers fisticuffs. Had to haul our Laurens' ass home, alas.  
     How did it go with you?

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: That was a shitshow  
     Confirmation needed: the bleeding Latino dude was Laurens? I thought I saw you but wasn't sure if it was you once you had your arms full of hot man with blood all over his shirt.  
     I loved your outfit, btw.

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: re: That was a shitshow  
     OH SHIT YOU WERE STILL THERE WHEN I SHOWED UP?? :D :D That is awesome! Where were you? I'm going to assume not making out with anyone if you saw me dragging Laurens away.

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: re: That was a shitshow  
     I was outside when you two were stumbling out. Maybe next time? 

~*~ 

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** worst ever.  
     My face hurts, my brain is ringing, and I'm seriously in like with the freaking coffee shop customer. This seriously messes with all my thoughts about Hams, btw, because I'm also kind of head over heels for him.  
     On that note too, Alex is so not impressed with me. He looked at me like I was something horrifying at the end there and booked it. It's not like it'll go anywhere now that I've figured out I _like him_ and nothing happening with _hams_ and fuck.  
     Thank you for taking care of me, I appreciate it.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: worst ever.  
     THREESOME. A threesome is your answer. Exchange brain sex with Hams, have person sex with Alex, figure out which you prefer, and then decide on threesome. Keep them both. Buy a food truck. Add Lafayette to the mix, they are hot.  
     Y/Y?  
     Oh he (Hams) was there too btw. I didn't see him (I think?) but he was all "The bleeding dude was Laurens?!" so yeah, now he knows what you look like in your natural state of Beating People Up. 

~*~ 

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Glory glory hell  
     Peggy says you saw my face get turned to mincemeat. Sorry about that - I know we were all supposed to meet up, also per Peggy, but one of my customers from my job was getting pushed around in defense of some asshole getting all in a girl’s business.  
     The bartender was about to call the bouncers on him anyway for said getting into businesses but what kind of off-clock muscle would I be if I didn't fight someone for being a dick and in defense of the cute customer guy?  
     He seriously didn't appreciate it. She did, and she was the one getting harassed, and that's what matters.  
     Did you at least have a decent night?

~*~

 **Peggtastic  
**      Do you usually get two fights in a single night, my dearest of Canadian friends?? Cause you need more bouncers if that's the case, if only to be eye candy.

  **hon-hon-hon**  
    There have never been two fights at Brandywine, who is spreading such lies?  
     I should get more regardless. You should come by as well! We did not get to speak as we wished.

  **Peggtastic  
**      what about off hours?

 **hon-hon-hon  
**      I get there at 2pm, mon minou!

~*~

"He's _John_."

Alex curls around one of Herc's throw pillows, his face slowly becoming one with the embroidered orange fabric. After two hours of silent panic, cold sweats, and hiding on Herc's couch, he'd fallen into a restless sleep full of colorless blotches and numbers. The scent of bacon and eggs worked in summoning wakefulness and now, stomach full of omelet, mushrooms, and coffee, Alex settles on the couch once more, face to pillow, and able to talk outside of quick, shallow breaths. Wailing into the pillow counts as an improvement of some kind.

Herc sits down next to the fetal curl of Alex, one large hand settling on Alex’s knee. "Yeah. Funnily enough, I'm pretty sure that's something we talked about yesterday."

Alex makes a strangled noise. "I ought to be ecstatic, utterly over the moon about it, they're both just so - so _them_ but I can't. I don't know what to do because he's _John_ and when I found out, I jerked away and ran like some asshole. I can't see him yet and I don't know what to do, but I need to do something, Herc. What do I do."

Alex looks up when Herc says nothing. His friend watches Alex, eyes narrow and appraising. Hercules slowly pulls the pillow down further with his free hand. Even if Herc takes it away, there are plenty more for Alex to freak out into. Colorful pillows and throws stuff the apartment, corners full of half-finished projects and cloth scraps, thread and needles, baskets of ribbon. It’s bright and rich, vibrant in a way that feels just like Hercules – his large, looming, ridiculous Hercules Mulligan settles more with the colors, thread, and flowers more than anything else Alexander knows, and it's comforting rather than odd.

With the pillow no longer a viable source of hiding, Alex wants to cling to Hercules and demand Herc process things for Alex, to help him write it out without putting the words to paper. Herc just watches him, though, doesn't drag him in or offer those words of wisdom Alex has come to depend on.

"Say something wise," Alex says, all but pleading. "I don't know how to handle this, I'm a child, my emotions are stunted and sad, I've never done this before."

"What does knowing his name isn't Jack have to do with this?" Herc says after a long pause. "You knew it was John yesterday. Did getting pushed around make you forget?"

Alex stares at Herc, feels the wave of dread begin it's slow rise in him all over again. He tries to speak and manages a high, hysterical laugh without humor. It takes another moment and a few deep breaths for Alex to get any actual words out.

"Herc," he says, one again so thin, so unlike himself. "I didn't know his name was John fucking Laurens."

Hercules laughs. Alex deflates, stares at him until Hercules looks at him again and throws his head back to laugh more, louder, and Alex really should start expecting this sort of reaction. He ought to know his friend better than hope he'd keep it in and have some sympathy for this plight.

Herc has no sympathy, only laughter that turns to him wiping his eyes from the tears, and Alex can't even hate him.

"I can't even hate you," Alex says over the laughter. It only makes Herc redouble his cackling. Alex's phone buzzes on the coffee table, gives him the perfect excuse to accidentally shove his knee into Herc's thigh even though it means he twists nearly double to do so.

"Is that your John fucking Laurens?" Herc says, more wheeze than words.

"... No."

~*~

 **AAAAND Peggy**  
     If you don't tell John that you are Alexander Hamilton very soon, he's going to be very angry when he figures it out.  
     Don't be that guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All of the metro adventures John describes/has are based off of my own experiences. While I never chatted with the girlfriend of a drug dealer, I did have a lovely conversation with the girlfriend of a gang leader at like, 2am, and in Vancouver heading back from the Night Market. They were all very nice. She liked my hair.
> 
> Oh, right. I have a tumblr. stringthe0ri.tumblr.com  
> Come say hi!


	7. We Could Prove We're Worth More Than Anyone Bargained For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy finds John in a curled, sad mess on his ridiculous couch. They threw on some clothes not a F*CK TRUMP shirt. Liberal Virginia or not, it's asking for trouble from disapproving parents and that's more trouble than it's worth. They bring one for John, though. John is great and deserves clothes just as awesome as he is.
> 
> Or, in the words of missjo: Jesus Alex get your shit together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who has left notes, kudos, and, in one rather rad case, even messaged me on Tumblr! I appreciate each and every one of them, they make my days brighter and spur on the fingers.
> 
> An extra loud shoutout to missjo for being both a fantastic sounding board and for encouraging this damn thing with her own (SUPER AWESOME GO READ IT) fic.
> 
> I'd apologize for the length of time between the last chapter and this chapter but, uh. If it had taken less time, this story would be only 7 chapters long but because of my experiences as a human, it's now going to be 8 chapters long. With a sequel. Yay?
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at stringtheori.tumblr.com  
>   
> Ahead of time warnings: Panic attacks lie within. Not-Really-Spoilers (but some people may think so) Warnings at the end of the chapter.  
>  **Also** if you read this chapter prior to 7.30am EST on 6/2/17, some things have been added to the chapter. Because a fourth, fifth, and eighth read through of an author a charm.

**To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Totally school related  
     So… this is going to sound weird but have you heard from Hams lately? Like, he's been quieter. I'm kind of worried.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: Totally school related  
     LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL  
     Are you for real? He's never been quiet, shit, he's ripping Jeffs apart more than usual.

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** ok, thanks  
     I appreciate it, Pegs.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: ok, thanks  
     wait, why?  
     Hey, can I come over?

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: re: ok, thanks  
     Sure, I'm here.

~*~

Peggy finds John in a curled, sad mess on his ridiculous couch. They threw on some clothes _not_ a F*CK TRUMP shirt. Liberal Virginia or not, it's asking for trouble from disapproving parents and that's more trouble than it's worth. They bring one for John, though. John is great and deserves clothes just as awesome as he is.

They've only been to his apartment once; it's tiny as shit and the A/C breaks every year according to John, but it's cheap with quiet neighbors and the landlord is four states away. If Peggy's being honest with themselves, they're a bit jealous.

A lot jealous.

What they're _not_ green-eyed over is John on his couch, tucking himself into as small a ball as he can, miserable looking and his phone open to the Blackboard inbox. It’s pretty pathetic, truth be told, something they’ve only seen John in when despondent over Hams. Alexander. Alexander Shitstain Hamilton.

Peggy takes a moment to take in the contradictions of John's studio. His television is expensive but his end tables are five dollars at Ikea (Peggy has four), the kitchen takes over maybe a fourth of the room with old tile and older counters, decked out with shiny new appliances. Hell, even the couch he claims is the most comfortable in the world looks as if it lost a fight against another couch in a Look Not Shitty contest and then there's oil paints and stretched canvas all over, a Copic 72 set on top of Bristol board in the corner.

It's slap-dash like they're pretty sure reflects a lot of John. Peggy tucks it all away to poke him about at a later date, to see if they can use those Copics, and sits next to him on the couch. John looks at them from the corner of his eyes, lifts his chin in time with Peggy putting two food-heavy plastic bags on one of those Ikea end tables.

"Do you really leave your door unlocked?" They raise their eyebrows, unimpressed. "I know your neighborhood is safeish but that's far too trusting for my taste."

"You said you were coming over," John sniffs the air. He leans towards Peggy to get a better look at the food. There's no small amount of smug pleasure in Peggy's smile, and it grows even more at John's wide-eyed stare. "Did you seriously drive to Centreville to bring me Manna?"

"I was leaving my job in Chantilly," Peggy corrects him with another self-satisfied smile, pushes a large Styrofoam box of miser watt in his general direction. "And brought _us_ Manna. You are sharing, young man."

"Oh my god, how much of the lentils did you bring?" John grabs the miser watt with a noise of delight, thumbing the box open. He stretches his legs out so they touch the ground, no longer fetal, and reaches for the second bag once his lentils are firmly settled.

"Almost half. Then, like, half of what's rest is the spicy chickpea stuff and then I just ordered a shitload of sambussa's."

"I could _kiss you_."

"Go for it, tiger," Peggy says. They're pretty sure he's talking to the lentils and offers John a bag bulging with still steaming sambussa. John leans over and presses a firm kiss against their cheek, leaves Peggy laughing and pushing at his shoulder. "I thought you were telling the miser watt how much you could kiss them."

"I will kiss them," John says, the ridiculousness of him doing far more to reassure Peggy than the lack of curling in a small ball on the couch. "If something is going into my mouth, it may as well be delicious lentils from Manna."

"Food first, _then_ feelings, Laurens," Peggy watches him with narrow eyes. John sighs and listens anyway, maneuvering on the couch to, his plate balancing precariously on his knees when he settles.

"Feelings," John says under his breath, piling lentils onto a piece of injera. "Mine are dumb."

"Incorrect and wrong, sir. Try again."

John shrugs, eyes on the food and hands still. The lentils seep through the injera, the warning sign that fingertips are soon to turn red and tangy. Peggy fights the urge to hug him or warn him, to tell him he doesn't _have_ to talk about it either way, but this isn't something John can hide from. Maybe he's able to avoid the leaking lentils, that's all Peggy doing their damnedest not to break the mood.

They _really_ hope this is over Hams revealing himself, saying something about him being Alex. Peggy eats their own injera wrapped lentils, both to avoid asking and to not end up sharing John's fate.

"Hams stopped talking to me."

Peggy freezes, the injera disconcertingly spongey on their tongue. A cold trickle of anger begins to squirm down their spine, too fierce for the spices and lentils to fully help.

"I called Alex cute in an email to Hams. It was about the fight and it's been two days. He never answered."

John sounds as miserable as he looks, his shoulders tense. He glances at Peggy, barely more than a peek, and shoves his injera into his mouth the same time he looks back to his food. Peggy takes the hint.

"Just stopped? Nothing at all? That doesn't sound like him," Peggy keeps their voice level as they can. Alex's secret is his to tell, Peggy doesn't out anyone, especially not like this, but they can probably get away with murder. Angelica taught them years ago all about justifiable homicide. "Maybe he's just busy? Or sick."

"He emailed when he was in the middle of a fucking panic attack," John scowls down at his food, scooping more lentils onto the plate. "I probably shouldn't have told you that but there you go."

"All I heard was your internet boo is a childish shit," Peggy kicks John's ankle gently. "That sucks. He never came off as the jealous type."

John shrugs and they both fall into silence for a few moments, eating lentils and injera, sambussa, and dinich watt. It's only at the first signs of fidgeting from John that Peggy looks at him from the corner of their eyes, watches how he picks at the flakey crust.

"He'd say something if he were jealous," John keeps his chin down. His mouth purses, looks as if he's going to cry instead of talk. Peggy tenses. "He's not exactly shy about things that make him angry. And he's never..."

John waves his hand, sambussa crust stuck to the red tips of his fingers.

"Never...? Flirted? Declared his love for you? I'm pretty sure there was that email where he flirted so hard that you panicked and went AWOL?"

God, it's on the tip of their tongue to _say something_. It would be so easy. So fucking easy.

"He flirts with everyone."

"You're an idiot," Peggy says, voice flat and unapologetic. "I hate how you willfully blind yourself. I brought you Manna, you’re not allowed to lie to me."

"You deserve better than me, Peg," John says to the plate of food.

“No shit,” Peggy shoves his shoulder with theirs. “I’m sorry, John.”

“He’s a shit,” John says. Peggy doesn’t disagree. John shrugs, uncomfortable, and goes back to demolishing his plate without further ado. As much as Peggy adores John, even he isn't going to hinder their Ethiopian food bliss.

They end up leaning against one another by the time the bags of food are reduced to just  _bags_ , their plates clear, and stomachs full. Peggy has no intention of moving, not with the pleasant warmth of John at their side and deliciousness in their belly, nor do they want to be the first one to start the talk of feelings all over again.

"You know, my dad was this conservative ass politico when I came out to him," John finally says, his eyes on the wall opposite to them. They wait for him to continue, patient with it, and place their hand over his carefully where it rests between the two of them. "Like, I said it  _really_ loudly it in the middle of a GOP shindig, literally in the middle of a crowd and in the peak talking time. I was tired of the homophobic shit masked as 'God loves them and so do I but the Bible says' bullshit. It's not love to be homophobic or pray the gay away, it's just being shitty.

"It's years later and Dad... Dad is hosting fundraisers for displaced trans youth, Peg. Shit, when one of my siblings came to him as trans, he just thanked them for being honest, said he loved them, and, and, he fucking sat down to make a plan of their transition with them. He  _paid for it_. All of it. He wants me to make a speech at a thing on New Years Eve about being gay and Christian and how God doesn't hate us, that it gets better, and he means it. Dad fucking  _means it_. After ages of me resenting him for his beliefs, I was finally honest in a humiliating way and he looked at me, saw he was wrong, and made efforts to not be that guy who hates what his kid is."

Peggy squeezes his hand. "He should come talk at campus. That's awesome, John."

"I expected him to disown me," He smiles, weak but genuine. "To shut me down. That's what I trusted him to do and he didn't do it. Now we're fucking... great. We're good, at least, better, and I trust him to be a decent human now. That's what gets me," Johns voice catches, a hiccup, a breath. "I trusted Hams to not shut me down or disappear. This is fucked up. It's not fair."

"It's not," Peggy says, their throat tight. "I'm sorry." For lying, for Hams being a shit, for all of it. They can't say it. Not their place, not yet.

"If you ever want to stop talking to me, will you just tell me?" John turns to look at Peggy, his lips set in a trembling line before he continues. "I can't do the not knowing. I hate the - the being discarded as soon as I'm no longer what someone wants me to be, that because of something I said, we can't be friends. It fucks me up. So - tell me. Okay?"

"I promise," Peggy squeezes again, leans into him closer. "And hell, if that happens, we can talk it out so we don't stop being friends."

John laughs. Even though he hiccups again, at least it ends with him not looking as if the sky rests entirely on him. "Okay. Sounds like a date."

 ~*~

 **AAAAND PEGGY**  
     talk to him.  
     you're being unfair. and unkind.

 **Ham-Ham-Bo-Bam**  
     I will

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.,  
**Subject:** Worried  
     After all my whining about you writing me twelve million emails for every twelve of mine, I actually miss them. You've been posting in the forum this weekend so I know you aren't dead but also the last time you went silent and kept up with your academics', you were in the middle of a meltdown.  
     Hopefully you aren't in the middle of a meltdown. Please tell me if you are.  
     Peggy suggested it was because I called one of my customers cute. (I feel like an arrogant ass typing that but there we go.) Like, he _is_ cute. If that's why you haven't responded to my last two emails or acknowledge me in e-class, I really need to know why. Is it because my gay isn't just stuck in GSA or what I talk about? Is it because I thought someone not you is worth flirting with?  
     just talk to me, hams. Please. We've been friends for two years.  
     I don't know what to do when you don't talk to me.

 

~*~

Alex always thought _heart-breaking_ was just a ridiculous figure of speech - _no_ one honestly feels as if the organ in their chest is ripped in two. Hearts don’t do that unless they’re undergoing surgery and even then, it’s with medical supervision and heavy medication. Alex felt his mother die with her arms around him, he found his cousin swinging from the high ceiling fan, and Alex never felt something he can later say is his heart breaking.

 _People are dramatic,_ he once added to a forum discussion on models and artists fucking. _How the hell did someone come up with the idea of_ shredding an organ _to describe sadness?_

The scent of shit and molding life sticks sweet to the air, earthy in a way Alex doesn’t often have in the DMV. Alex squishes the thought of John there with him, just as mussed as Alex himself, smiling and freckled. Even if he doesn’t know what to do with the John/Laurens situation, Alex always reads John’s emails.

He opens the message from John halfway through an early shift at the nursery, a trowel in one hand and a streak of dirt on his cheek. Peggy's text the day before kept his stomach a constant churn of indecision, torn between denying he knows anything to John and blurting out everything; he managed to respond to Peggy, at least, but not much. Peggy's words and the email from John policy prevents him from brushing it off until later in the day, a safer time. He should've.

The trowel clatters to the ground as soon as Alex finishes that last goddamn line, loud in the relative silence save for Alex’s abruptly ragged breathing.

John’s email breaks Alex’s heart.

It’s a punch of frustration and grief just below his sternum, a gut-deep twist of panic to bile, a drop of the floor, skin prickling as if cold and a scorching fire just below the chill, all at once. His _heart_ feels as if it crumbles at the seams, no tools required, no tearing, just an icy chasm in his chest cavity where it beat only a moment prior.

People are dramatic. _Alex_ is dramatic. Alex cares in only the most distant of ways, too busy breathing and trying not to recite _I don’t know what to do when you don’t talk to me_ in his mind, with little success. It hits him the same way that his mothers loss did, though not in the same capacity, not in the same depth of earth-shattering  _no no no_ and hurt of things that were never to happen with her, a loss of something, someone, he loved dearly, his  _mother_. No, what's same is the cold clutch at his throat and the sudden drenching panicked worry that coats his lungs and clouds his thoughts.

He hurt Laurens, Alex is being downright shitty and manipulative, even if he has his reasons. His hands shake whenever he tries to write back. Going into the cafe makes bile sting the back of his throat and carry his feet away. Alex doesn't know what to do when they aren't talking, when he's hurt him, and it's - fuck, he hates everything.

“Alex? Hey, I need those – Oh shit. Alex?”

Herc fills his line of vision, huge and safe from the top of his shiny bald head to his shiny dark boots, and still everything burns. Alex feels Herc’s hands on his shoulders, smells the coffee grinds on him that they use to help fertilize things, he even lets Herc shake him, gently. It takes far too long for him to focus on Herc. Alex tries to picture a square, to follow it in his mind and breathe in or out when it hits a corner. He fails. It's too much of John, too much of that voice in his ear in soothing low tones speaking a language Alex at the time didn't understand. The square makes it worse.

“Alex. _Alex_. I know you’re freaking out but you need to open your mouth and breathe, man. Otherwise you’re going to pass out,” Herc rubs Alex’s arms, gives him a gentle shake. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Alex shakes his head and leans away, though Herc stays still, refusing to let him get far. A scramble with his phone and a few thumb presses later, Alex shoves it at Herc, John’s email on the screen for all to see.

He fucked up. Alex knows he fucked up just by how many expressions twist Herc’s face. Breathing is a goal, an end game still, but it’s been days of not having proper lungful and avoiding John and Laurens on all fronts.

Ages of those numb lungs and burying himself in work and school, and Alex still can’t do anything. It’s infuriating on a distant level, the same level heart-breaking once was. Alex is good at so many things, he needs to be, and he still chokes when it means feelings. His words fail him at the most important of times.

“Jesus fuck, dude. What the hell, Hamilton?”

“I don't know why I'm freaking out. I don’t know what to do,” Alex says tightly, barely able to get the words out. It’s a lie, Herc knows it, Alex sees it in the disapproving frown Herc levels at him. “I need to think about this. About what to do.”

Herc tucks the phone into Alex’s apron pocket. “You’re talking, so that’s a step in the right direction. You back with me? Present day? No panic attacks?”

Alex nods, then shakes his head. He's breathing, jagged, ragged things, hitching and wet and that fucking _square_ in his brain. Herc gives him those moments to find himself, finally imagining a fucking triangle. It takes far too long to pull himself out of the fog of thoughtless panic, of the shaking brain. His hands tremble, regardless, small enough that Alex can ignore them and nod a genuine affirmative.

He opens his mouth to say something, only to be cut off by Herc’s brusque nod and firm, “You _tell him_ , Alexander Jerkass Ghosting Hamilton. What the fuck.” There’s no chance to hunch shoulders or spit out a response appropriate for such idiocy – Alex finds himself cheek to chest with Herc. He’s squished up against Herc’s gross apron and Herc keeps him place with a _hug_.

“It’s fucked up you know and he doesn’t _and_ you going quiet isn't helping,” Herc says, his chest rumbling against Alex's cheek. “I’m just saying.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Alex hates the fact that he’s begging, hates it more that he can’t help it. Alex _needs_ Herc to understand and be on his side, damnit. “He’ll _hate me._ I don't - I don't know what to do when he hates me. If I talk to him, I'll know if he does. It'll be fact.”

Herc tightens his hold on Alex again, his fingers stroking through Alex’s hair. Any other time would see Alex bristling and fighting free. Right now, he leans close, limp, and says nothing.

“He’s going to be fucking pissed you haven’t told him, yeah,” Herc mumbles into the top of Alex’s head. Asshole. “But if you do it _now_ and explain your response, it’ll be a lot easier to recover from. He’s going to be worse the longer you avoid it.”

Alex wilts. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“He thinks he's lost his best goddamn friend. Dude, that’s cold. You have abandonment issues, what the actual shit? You know better.”

“Not helping. I hate everything,” Alex twists in a vain effort to get away. Herc loosens the hug just enough for Alex to sigh and flop all over again. “John is like… He’s hot, we flirt, it’s dumb and casual and – I like him.”

“And,” Herc says still into Alex’s hair, fingers petting the strands he isn’t breathing into.

“And Laurens is everything. He’s great. He’s just – fuck, and there’s Laurens who is everything, just absolutely _all_ , and now he’s sexy and punching people for me, just as shitty as he is online, stupid funny, stupid ridiculous. Jesus fuck,” Alex hiccups the last word out. “I have his voicemail from like two semesters ago, it’s pathetic how much of – of the world he is. I imagined us just sitting up, talking and debating, not anything physical. It was too abstract.”

Alex slumps against Herc again, puts all his weight into his friends hold. Herc sighs, unhurried, and rubs Alex's back.

“John Laurens isn’t supposed to be real.”

“You poor, emotionally stunted idiot. Christ, Alex,” Herc squeezes him. It shouldn't be as comforting as it is.

“I hate everything,” Alex says again, quieter now. Everything is terrible, everyone except John and Herc are terrible, and he hates himself too. “Now I should go to hot John, the same one who is speaking Spanish at me in a voicemail from my last panic attack, and say, hey, I’ve been stupid over you for years, sorry I panicked when I realized you’re grossly gorgeous and super great and I’m an emotionally stunted gremlin.”

The large gardener pauses. “I mean, I’d forgive you if it can out that way.”

“You’re a shit.”

“And you’re a gremlin. Call the boy. Tell him he’s all you’ve ever wanted. Write him. Fuck, kid, do something so his only support system in the world isn’t _gone_. That alone is mean in a way you usually try not to be,” Herc lets Alex go, gently, his arms still light around Alex just in case.

“I’m freaking out,” protests Alex with a squirm away, his glare only half effort. He huffs a sigh after a moment and looks away. “Will you at least order me as my boss to go do it?”

Hercules Jerkass Mulligan laughs. “Fuck no. You do this as an adult, gremlin.”

Alex loathes everything. He takes deep breaths, steadying ones meant to help get, and keep, his head on straight.

"If I abandon him first, I don't have to worry about him doing it to me," he says, looking away from his friend. "So you know."

"Yeah," Herc pats him on the back. "I know. Talk to him anyway. Tomorrow. Before coming in."

~*~

 **BLESS MAH SOUL**  
     You got this!!!!

 **Gremlin Ginger**  
     what the shit it is fucking four am you fuck

 **BLESS MAH SOUL**  
     Just in time to go to coffee place and woo your boy! also get coffee you enjoy, you've been shitty with the peets.

 

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** Sorry  
     I'm sorry, Laurens. It was shitty to go quiet, I swear I have my reasons, but it was unfair to do that to you. Look - is there any way we can meet up? Or talk on the phone? It's not something I want to talk about in email, but  
      _[Draft Deleted]_

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** Sorry  
     My name is Alexander Hamilton and yours is John Laurens and you work at the coffee shop. You also punched someone for me last weekend. I panicked because you're hot and also my best friend and I lo  
      _[Draft Deleted]_

 **T** **o:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** Sorry  
     I'm pretty sure I am deep in romantic like for you. I'm also prone to panic attacks with abandonment things. Ghosting on you was shitty.   
     can we talk about this not via email if I've not freaked you out to hell and back? _  
_[Draft Saved]__

~*~

Four fifty-five in the morning, ten minutes earlier than usual, and Alex still feels late in getting to the coffee shop. He’s even five minutes early for the opening and that’s okay, he’ll wait behind some trees or something as to not be that creepy patron that lurks until someone unlocks the door. Alex tries so hard not to be that creepy patron but just, you know, he at least wants to hide it for as long as he can. He also wants to press send on that fucking email but that's so not happening.

Early and he reaches for the door out of habit. The windows are near vibrating with the noise inside, a steady, deep bass that he’s never heard in the coffee shop before. John stands behind the counter, his back to Alex, head bobbing to the beat. It’s startling enough – and he’s curious enough – that Alex tries to open the door anyway.

He steps in to club-loud music, bones echoing with the bass, and slams into a wall of lyrics _very_ unexpected in John’s little shop.

_Ain’t into metal, got leather and lace and the taste of oxidation. Lay still and let her let like leech and suck, she might let you fuck but she want_

**_Body and blood_ **

“Holy what the fuck,” The words are lost to the chorus, words of _she don’t need you for shit just your dick and your veins_. He’s distantly aware that his mouth is open, jaw likely at the floor in a full force gawk. There’s no way he can prepare himself for this in the morning, the words and voice and how John spins around, mouthing the rest of the lyrics with baked goods in hand.

_Nails did, hair did, body right, teeth white, knives sharp_

John bares his teeth at _sharp_. He glances up at the pastry display cases just long enough to push the tray of muffins onto one of the levels. Alex – Alex feels a lot of feelings. The strings of them tangle and twist but he knows none of them are _panic_.

The acute twist of want is familiar, though. That’s another one he recognizes. And affection, that too.

_If you a bad bitch, let ‘em know you ain’t out for the dough, you want the **body and blood**_

The singer says _twerk somethin’ girl, twerk somethin’ girl,_ and John leans back enough to do presumably just that. He glances at the door before anything remotely twerking happens and his eyes meet Alex’s. The result is instantaneous: John yelps, or at least looks like he’s yelping, flails a bit, and his cheeks darken in a blush. It’s mutual, Alex is pretty sure his face is on fire, but he can’t flail or yelp, he just stares helplessly.

John darts into the kitchen. Alex inches towards the door.

_She got her own home, she got her own set of power tools her own unmarked van, plan meticulously laid-_

Alex stumbles now, thrown off guard by the sudden lack of earth-shatteringly loud music and wonderful lyrics. He makes a mental note to look them up later, if this talk doesn’t go grossly sideways and thus makes him sad forever.

His brain races to talk about all the things that could go wrong, _will_ go wrong, jabbering along in his head as soon as it has an excuse to do so. He forcibly shuts them up at the first sight of John, cheeks still dark and expression now sheepish.

“Sorry about that,” John laughs, a little weakly. “Now you know what I listen to before we open officially?”

“Uh – okay, first, what band was that? I need them in my life, like, now, and – I mean, it’s before five, I wasn’t going to come in but _reflex_ ,” Alex claps a hand over his mouth, forcing himself to take a breath through high nose. John eyes him, though he says nothing to urge or discourage. It’s what pushes Alex to continue. Talking is usually so easy. “So, uhm, sorry about that. And for ghosting. Especially the ghosting.”

Expression unreadable, John shrugs and starts the dip coffee. “It’s fine. You’re not obligated to get your coffee here every day,” He hesitates, turning his head away from Alex to look at the display case. “Don’t feel like I’ll sit here hating you if you don’t want to be here.”

Ouch. Alex winces, slouching into himself. Disappearing as Alex is the only thing John knows, it’s not as if Alex should expect him to know it’s an apology from Hams too. He squirms, reaching for the right way to say anything that could make this any better.

“I’d really like to keep coming here for my coffee every day?” Alex licks his lips and rushes on, promptly ruining any chance on not being creepy. “After the club, I got all weird, and didn’t know how to talk about this thing, and I don’t know where else to talk to you. Oh god, that sounds so freaky.”

“Slow down,” John taps his fingers on the counter top, eyeing Alex contemplatively. “We got in this dudes shit and you freaked out? Because I punched him or blacked out? What?”

“You _squeezed my hand_ ,” Alex says, still helpless, hopeless, so less without his words to fall back on. This isn't something he's memorized, it's being tossed to John before he thinks them. All he knows is that the words _Hams_ and  _Laurens_ haven't left him. “You told me my glasses look good after you defended me, got fucked up for it, and I was cleaning up the blood you bled _for me_. I tried not to be that weird ass customer who flirts and then there was that, and I realized that you were – _are_ and I’m-"

“I am what?”

Alex stutters into silence. John’s tucked his hands into his pockets, shoulders to his ears and chin tipping down. He looks small, at odds with the even, nearly flat, tone of his voice. For a heavy heartbeat in time, neither speak or move, and Alex learns what _oppressive silence_ actually is. This is where Alex spills the beans, tells the truth, spits out that he's Hams, John is Laurens, and that they should make out. This is - actually, this is where Alex fumbles between  _want_ and  _need_ while simultaneously putting his own comfort before others.

What, like it's unexpected? Even Alex expects it and it's a _sub_ conscious, no one is surprised.

“I just – I put some things together. About you. And me, I guess, but I didn’t know how to talk to you about it. Herc said I should just be a fucking adult so here I am. Adulting. Being shitty at it.”

“Don’t insult yourself,” John mutters, head tilting up to level Alex an unimpressed look. “Look, I get it, I shouldn’t have flirted or touched or whatever. I won’t do it again and I was high on adrenaline, and I totally understand if you stay too freaked out to come in, but I really don’t want you to think I was trying to gay-prey on you.”

“I – what?” Alex blinks. Then, “No, that’s not what I meant. The flirting was _great_ , I would’ve done it back but then your friend happened. That’s why I haven’t… I don’t want to be the gross flirty customer.”

It’s John’s turn to blink and look confused. He does it so well. He does everything well.

Alex shrugs and leans against one of the nearby tables. He studies the floor and makes himself continue. “It’s _literally_ a trope. Coffee Shop AU. Shit, I even work with flowers and florists. That’s all… power imbalance and super uncool. Customer, me, getting flirty with a barista, you, just because you said one thing and touched my hand, that’s not on and there was other stuff and I panicked.”

“… What other stuff?” Alex must look as puzzled as he feels, because John huffs a laugh and busies himself with more coffee and pastries, and keeps talking. “As in, you’re dating someone? Or I’m messed up for flirting with a customer?”

Alex shakes his head quickly. “Not dating someone else and you aren’t messed up. It’s – Fuck, I don’t know how to say this. Just that we’re _us_ and it’s been two years of,” He waves his hand between them. “You know?”

“No, not really,” John arches his eyebrows. Alex fights for a graceful way to say _btw I’m Hams_ but it all just sounds… Shitty. Weak. Sounds like he’s going to lose a friend. “Take your time and figure out how to say it, I’m not about to get in your face about it.”

Gauntlet, thrown. A polite throw, a gentle toss at worst, but John draws his line in the sand with those words. Alex hesitates only a second before he throws caution to the wind. It’s worked so far. Kind of.

“How about I decide how to word things right and tell you tomorrow? When you’re not at work so it’s not this employee and customer situation thing.”

“Like a,” John laughs, something in it off in a way Alex can’t quite pin down. “Okay. Will there be food and things? I’m always down for food.”

“There can be food. Subs?”

“Yeah,” John says. “Sounds good. I get off work at noon.”

Somehow Alex keeps himself from saying anything about John getting off. It’s not the mood he’s going for, here. Rather than make a lewd joke, he laughs and rubs the back of his neck, words struck from him yet again.

“So… Do you want coffee today or not?” John flicks his fingers towards the coffee drip and espresso machine, his smile tinged with amusement. “This being strictly a social call is acceptable, of course, but also coffee.”

“Yes, please,” Alex nods quickly. It’s then that he realizes he’s still nearly at the door, far too away from the counter and John. He hastens to the register, hand already in his pocket for his card. “Also, coffee.”

John grins at Alex then, that familiar crooked grin full of humor and warmth. Less than a week ago that smile caused Alex’s thoughts to race to _fuck he’s cute_ and his stomach to clench in that distant, crush like want. Now, knowing that John is Laurens, is _John Laurens_ , his heart squeezes and ribs go tight, cheeks rise with a blush, and Alex’s mental mantra less _fuck he’s cute_ and more _oh god, **Laurens**_.

That smile is fucking dangerous.

“I meant it, you know,” John says, Alex’s card in his hand and eyes on the credit machine. “The thing about your glasses.”

“And if you weren’t working I’d tell you that you should always wear more of what you did at the club that night,” Alex’s retort sounds weak to his own ears but John’s ears go pink and he levels that smile at Alex all over again. “But you are, so.”

John laughs again and hands Alex his card back, pushes the coffee forward with his other. Their fingers don’t brush. It’s a shitty kind of mercy. “Would it be weird to get your number? In case we end up getting caught up before noon or something.”

“Is that a line?” Alex says, delighted. “I can text you with it. What’s yours?”

Alex is a terrible man, he’s going to hell, and he damn well knows John’s number. He’s also unremorseful on it; letting on his knows it would tell John everything and now he has until tomorrow to plan a speech. Off the cuff is great for politics and indignant rants or professions of love – not for this.

The bell chimes the arrival of another customer. Alex steps to the side, coffee in hand, and John holds out a phone. “Put your number in here, it’s unlocked and on the contact page. If you change anyone’s name as a joke, consider yourself banned.”

“I- What?” Alex stares down at John’s phone, eyebrows furrowing. John only snorts, smile in place, and turns away to help the newest customer. After another moment of hesitation, Alex licks his lips and scrolls through his contacts for a preliminary check. _Hams, A._ catches his eye, right there in John's list of people awesome enough to be remembered by him.

      _[Edit Contact Information]_

     **First Name:**   Alexander  
**Last Name:** H  
     **Contact Number (M):** (760) 111-1757  
     **Contact Number (H):**  

 _[Save Contact Changes?]  
_ _[ **Yes** ]      [No]_

~*~

“Figure it out by tomorrow, Alex,” John says when Alex hands his phone back, coffee shop empty and Alex already a third through his cup. “And I’m going to burn the memory of flirting with a customer like some anime out of my head until then. Deal?”

John's only halfway joking. Like hell does he want to be a symbol encouraging someone to flirt with their baristas (or customers), except Alex... Alex actually came in, apologized, and he did so for disappearing because he thinks John is great and great to look at all at the same time. With Hams on the roller coaster of horrible silence and shittiness, the words act as a weak balm to his nerves, especially with Alex not expecting anything. The surprise on his face when John went with it said that much.

It helps that he's also someone John  _really_ likes, even if he isn't the one he's an idiot for getting hung up on.

Alex grins, awkward and weak, but something. There. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Deal.”

~*~

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Okay so.  
     I've chosen to believe you're just not reading these. I refuse to entertain the notion that you read my last three emails and thought none of them worth responding to. It's not like I'm Jefferson spouting some hate shit that you're taking your time responding to because there's a sick burn coming. I'm Laurens and you've always, _always_ , gotten back to me even when stuck in the middle of nowhere.  
     You're the only one I can talk to about this guy and since you aren't reading my emails, you can't mock me or judge me for it. The last person I went out with was Francis and - that was a cluster fuck, I've told you a little about him. And I've held a secret flame for a long time now, not for coffee customer guy, and I'm conflicted. I _like_ him. I don't want to like him but I do.  
     I'm pretty sure this is a date? I don't know why it wouldn't be a date, we pretty much said it was a date flat out. I don't know what to do on dates any more than I how to write papers without you.  
     Fuck, I wish we were talking. Typing. Whatever.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: Okay so.  
     I was having a meltdown of sorts, sorry. I'm back now. I'm sorry for doing that, I've been reading them but I couldn't answer because of said meltdown. (Reason, not an excuse.) It wasn't - isn't - because you aren't worth responding to.  
     Is your museum thing soon?

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: re: Okay so.  
   Yeah. Two weeks ish, I need to check the ticket.  
   Thank you for telling me. Apology accepted but dude, just try to send me a garbled email or something next time. You okay?

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: Okay so.  
     Peachy keen, laurens bean.  
     and okay.

~*~

 **John Laurens  
**      Checking to see if Alex from the coffee shop gave me his real number

 **Alexander H  
**      Sorry, you’ve reached becky with the good hair

 **John Laurens**  
     Cool, what’s up, Alex?  
     Also the song is by the band clipping.

 **Alexander H**  
     2 hours later and I've listened to Splendor  & Misery far too many times and Wriggle is hands down the shit.

~*~

Laurens curls around the warm body tucked against him, one freckled arm draping itself over his chest. His lovers face is hidden behind a fall of hair and the darkness of night, the computers illumination not enough to cast light to his face. John doesn’t care. John nuzzles against the top of his head and feels his soulmate laugh more than he hears it.

“ _You’re a sap,_ ” the other man murmurs with amusement, low in stilted French. The words appear in the air like wisps of smoke, each letter a number – several numbers, a mass of zeros and ones in rows of eight. Everything is shades of brown, sepia, and when the other cuddles back, John hears the clacking of keys. _“How can you believe that the essential, fundamental purpose of art is to find ones inner self? I’m asking, honestly, I am. Convert me to the world of sappiness, Laurens. I can’t wait.”_

 _“You’re a shit, Hams,”_ John feels his mouth saying. They, too, float off in the air as zeros and ones in sequences of eight. He strokes the other mans’ arm, feels the crackle between them, of static, and he touches anyway as he rattles off an email from two years ago. _“I refuse to believe that a man with such passion would think that anything requiring passion won’t also require their own self. How…”_

They talk. They speak emails wrote long before, watch as binary floats into the sky.

The last whisper to dissipate into smoke is from the man in his arms, a small, broken message of, _“Thanks for answering your email, Laurens.”_

John jerks awake with the edges of his vision still tinging the sepia of his bond dream. Of Hams. Of him and Hams, together, intertwined with binary in the air like butterflies.

Hams, who only responds in short, terse emails and no longer blathers full pages of brilliance, who apologized earlier that day for being a jackass and having a breakdown. John, with Alex and a date, without a Hams.

His stomach turns, the threat of nausea curling his world for a long moment. John huddles under his blankets and pulls them tight over his head in a vain attempt to keep from knowing the nights realization. It's not that he doesn't _want_ his soulmate, of course he does. He'd just - John prefers to think of his soulmate as actually liking him, not punishing him for not being what he thinks John ought to be. (Meltdown. Right. Hams wasn't punishing him, just him _self_ but silence is cruel and manipulative, or feels that way even after it's explained and John cant stop thinking of it that way.)

Fuck.  _Fuck_. What is he going to tell Alex? Hams? Either? Or? Both?

John stares at his ceiling and bids any chance at more sleep a fond farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mother ship reporting (lol) no but really, there is at least one on screen panic attack, talks of consent and employee/customer power dynamics, and SUPER sketchy shady shit of lying by omission. Also questionable character actions I absolutely do not condone.
> 
> The song in John's coffee shop is Body and Blood by clipping., which is Daveed Diggs' band that I highly recommend.  
> The Ethiopian restaurant Peggy brings food from is real! Manna is excellent and should you be in the DMV area, I highly recommend hunting it down.


	8. Tomorrow There Will Be More Of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> J Bird  
> I had a bond dream  
> It was hams. Im going to be sick  
> Now I have to go tell alex that haha sorry we can’t date because im flipping my shit over here  
> I know I don’t have to listen to th bond dreams but fuck I want to  
> Peg ❤  
> CALL ME  
> CALL ME RIGHT NOW, DROP EVERYTHING  
> JOHN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all are badass to the point where I finished two chapters, and this fic, in three days. what the hell-o.  
> I heart you all, more serious notes at the end, and the only warnings I can think of is Alex being Alex and that communication is important, everyone.
> 
> Please read the end notes after you've finished the chapter. :D I HEART YOU ALL.
> 
> & yes, I've taken liberties with the length of semesters.

Scribbled on notebook paper in Alex’s pocket:

_Dear John, I don’t really know how to say this so I’m writing it with plans to say it. Feel free to yell at me at any time or grab the paper to read instead, I’m not going to get grumpy about it either way. I absolutely loathe the fact that, unless I’m angry, drunk, or not emotionally invested in something, words can fail me when I try to blurt them out on the spot._

_Impassioned speeches, yes. Good. Not so much this, which is why I’m writing it in vernacular rather than like anything G-Wash would want. I’m baller at emails, too, something you’re aware of seeing as how my name is Alexander Hamilton. As in Hams._

_I’ve known since the night at Brandywine. Lafayette called you Laurens twice and it all clicked into place. I panicked. I’m sorry. The guy I’ve been stupid over for ages is the attractive and totally off-limits barista that just beat the shit out of a guy who pushed me around and I sort of short-circuited._

_No, there’s no ‘sort of’. I did._

_If you’re still letting me talk or you’re reading this instead, please know I’m sorry. I should have told you the moment I found out or the day after. Disappearing how I did is a very unhealthy coping mechanism on my part but, like I said in my email, it’s just a reason. It’s not an excuse. There is no excuse. I care about you and still, I did that, I hurt you, I made you feel that way._

_I hate that I made you think you don’t matter. I don’t know what to do when we aren’t talking either, and fuck, Laurens, that ripped me apart. I’m so sorry. I’ll write you a fucking love sonnet, an apology haiku, a fucking iambic pentameter about turtles and art and everything you like. You don’t have to speak to me again, or forgive me, the two aren’t mutually exclusive, neither are an ultimatum._

_If nothing else, please know you’re always worth replying to. I don’t reply only when I’m not worth replying, at least in my own eyes._

_*note to self: if you have time to rewrite this, do so, this is garbage._

~*~

 **J Bird**  
     I had a bond dream  
     It was hams. Im going to be sick  
     Now I have to go tell alex that haha sorry we can’t date because im flipping my shit over here  
     I know I don’t have to listen to th bond dreams but fuck I want to

 **Peg** **❤**  
     CALL ME  
     CALL ME RIGHT NOW, DROP EVERYTHING  
     JOHN

 **J Bird  
**      Sorry work is busy I will call you when I get out ok

 **Peg** **❤**  
     I have 2 3hr classes starting at noon laurens  
     1 after the other  
     Tell my lazy ass sister to take over for you for ten minutes

 **J Bird  
**      She’s busy too ttyl sorry peg ilu

~*~

John ends up working until five past noon, aching and exhausted from an uncommonly busy day. A grand total of two hours sleep the night before doesn’t help at all, leaves his brain in an alert, if foggy, state. Ben and Maria are on time for once, thank God. Angelica nearly kisses them, John rips off his apron, and both are out the door in record time.

He spots Alex on the bench outside, bent over a textbook with a notebook beside him. He’s presumably making notes, though for the life of him John can’t understand how it’s possible without looking at the page. Date or no date, Alex wore the glasses John likes so much, their hold precarious where they perch on the tip of his nose, studious to a T.

The need to draw makes John’s hands itch. He already sees the sketch in his mind in charcoals, of Alex on the bench, writing and reading simultaneously, the heavy side bag he always wears leaning against the sides of his kicks. How does someone wear a sweater vest two sizes too big and put their hair up messily and still be attractive? John traces the edges of Alex, softer than his own, rounded where John has muscle or angles. He needs sleep, maybe, needs to make sure to get the pen out of his hair, and he's stupid beautiful.

Fuck.

“Oy,” John calls out, waving in Alex’s general direction. Despite what he’s about to do, John feels a flutter in his stomach as soon as Alex looks up and smiles at John as if he were something fantastic. It wouldn’t be difficult to ignore the dreams and tamp down on his talks with Hams, though it’s been heading that way any way, the simplest thing in the world to tell Alex he’s not his soul mate but that he wants to be with him anyway, fuck that noise.

John misses emails that read the way Alex smiles at him.

He misses Hams.

If John could stop speaking to Alex in exchange for Hams to even be his _friend_ again, he would. The realization catches in his throat, strangles his own grin. Alex’s swinging his bag onto his shoulder, chin tilting in just the way so he doesn’t see John’s face.

“So, I wrote this down,” Alex says towards his bag, jostling it so he can offer John a strained smile. Alex hesitates, hand half out of his pocket. His ink stained fingers clutch a folded sheet of paper, words visible but illegible to John. “You okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” John pitches his voice to something not utterly fucked, grins at Alex again. “I’m excited about food, though. Work was a shit show today. I’m pretty sure I’ve worked off more calories than I’ve eaten all week, which is impressive.”

Alex snorts. “That sounds terrifying. Do you want to eat or do you want to, like, hear this piece of literary wonder right away?” He holds up the paper and waves it in the air, his handwriting long and inky, more spider web than words.

John glances around and shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Whatever you’re more comfortable with, I guess. I always like it when guys write things just for me.”

He earns himself a low chuckle and a quick, shy smile. Alex starts walking in the direction of food, probably, and John walks next to him. Their shoulders don't quite bump, though it's a near thing. John feels the warmth radiating off of the man next to him, the sound of Alex's bag thumping idly against the side not near John comforting. It's not quite binary but... But it's something.

“May as well read on the way there,” Alex flicks the paper open, clearing his throat. He squints down at the paper, has to push his glasses back up, but eventually he gets it. “Dear John – good lord, this isn’t a Dear John letter, I swear.”

“Did you write that down?” John laughs and leans over to try and get a peek at the scrawl of words. Alex yelps, presses it word-down to his chest. “Oh, come _on_.”

“I’m _orating_ ,” says Alex primly, complete with a pretentious, fake sniff. “Take my oral offerings as they come, John.”

 _That_ sends John into a fit of laughter he doesn’t even bother to curb. Alex grumbles and elbows him, though John sees him hide a smile while he giggles. It takes a good two minutes for John to finally quiet and grin widely at Alex. John rasps, " _Orating_ ," and begins the vicious cycle all over again, laughing  into his hands, tears at the corner of his eyes. He's swearing and still chuckling by the time he calms down enough to speak and stay calm.

“Okay, okay,” he says, voice more gasp than words. “Orate for me.”

Alex eyes him suspiciously. When John doesn’t start laughing all over again, Alex nods and peels the paper from his person to begin again. “I don’t know how to say this, so I’m writing it with plans to say it.”

“It sounds like an actual Dear John letter,” John says, eyebrows arching. Maybe he should write a Dear Hams one and take the first line of Alex’s as a good start. Alex grumbles again, still smiling, and _of course_ John has to think of his friend. His bondmate. Soul human. His.

Alex can read him a letter about how he likes John. John in turn can go home and tell Hams nothing, refuse to nurture the Bond, let it wear out. If they stop talking, stop interacting, it’ll fade. It takes proximity and emotions to solidify a Bond after all – it isn’t too difficult in the beginning stages.

Distantly, he hears Alex talking about John yelling or grabbing, and then: “John? Seriously, are you alright? You look like you’re going to puke.”

John shakes his head. He rubs his hand over his mouth, sighing against his palm. It smells of coffee, probably will forever, and there’s no crackle of static, no binary between the two of them. Alex is Alex, and John likes him a lot, but the smoky numbers stick with him, fond whispering words, simple thanks, soft strokes of hand to arm and stomach.

Alex is great and wears glasses and shirts with liberal slogans, carries around a bag with buttons on it, has a damn journal and uses highlighters. He makes John laugh, yells just as loud when people give him shit, and from what little John’s seen, Alex is _interesting_.

“I had a Bond dream last night,” John says in a rush, says it because the thought of never speaking with Alex again sucks but it doesn’t make him want to cry. Alex freezes, eyes wide, his hand near white as the paper where it hangs by his side. “It wasn’t you. I mean, obviously, you know it wasn’t you. Isn’t you. And I really like you, Alex.”

“I like you too. That’s why I have to tell you-”

John shakes his head again, hands in the air as if it’ll ward off Alex’s words. They die on Alex’s lips, it works, but still he steps forward, hand with the paper out towards John.

“No, please don’t. I’m sorry. I know I flirted and touched your hand and it wasn’t – I didn’t _know_. He’s in my class and I think I know why he’s upset at you and me talking. And- what?” Alex steps forward, grabbing John’s hand and pushing the note into John’s palm. “I can’t do this, Alex.”

“Please stay,” Alex folds John’s fingers over the note. “I’m-”

John shakes his head once more and pulls his hand away, the skin of his knuckles warm and tender as if he had been in a fight. His words overlap with Alex’s, covering whatever adorable or witty or off the wall thing he says. “I thought I could do this, just not saying anything, go out with you, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I need to figure out what the fuck to do on the other side of this and – I’m sorry, Alex.”

“But, John,” he says. “Read it at least? Okay? Please?”

Except John moves away completely, out of arms reach, his face hot and hands cold. He leaves Alex standing on the sidewalk with his glasses askew and his note in Johns pocket, crumpled by the time John gets home.

~*~

 **Gremlin Ginger**  
    … well I tried to tell him, even said ‘I’m Hamilton’ but he was talking about a Bond dream and telling me he’s stupid over a guy from class and then bolted.  
     Do I get points for trying?

 **BLESS MAH SOUL**  
    Text him you idiot.  
  
**Gremlin Ginger**  
I was thinking more email him as hams and be all ‘so I tried to tell you today’ if he doesn’t read the fucking note  
     Cause I don’t think he wants to hear from ‘alex’  
     …  
     I fucked up, didn’t i.

 **BLESS MAH SOUL**  
     That’s not a bad idea  & yes, you did.  
     I’m not sure which part you mean you fucked up but I’m agreeing with you anyway because I know in my soul it’s the right answer.

~*~

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Calling You?  
     I tried to call but it went straight to voicemail and you haven’t answered your texts. What’s up? Want to come over? I can tell you all about the shitshow that happened today, he barely got a word in and now I’m trying not to message Hams because I’d want to be told if he knew were bondmates.

~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** 90pg Pamphlet of My Darkest Secrets  
     Laurens,  
     Perhaps one day I will understand what it is to be unselfish, to not give in to the part of me that demands I ruin my own life before another can do it for me. The whims of God and nature have taken from me things beyond my control, lives and loves and homes that I was unable to hold on to. It is a terrible thing, helplessness. It fills a man with desperation and a terrible biting need to take the reins on what aspects of his life he may, without terrible consequence, save for that he brings upon himself.  
     It is better, in that frame of mind, to bring about one’s own fall from grace so another cannot do it for them. I have known people with, what you and I call, chemical situations, one such person in possession of bipolar disorder in its full spectrum, anxiety, narcolepsy, ADD, and once, long ago, almost took their own life to rule their own mind. When we spoke, before I came to school here, they told me that they talked loud and long about their disorders, their chemical imbalances, that they made light jokes to bring things to light, almost as much as they declared their sexuality.  
     “I talk about it so no one else can use it against me,” they said. “No one can weaponize what I’ve made clear to be an edge I’m comfortable with. On top of that, I’ve had more people tell me they’ve realized their own depression or anxiety or the other shit I have, and they went to someone for help. More than once, I’ve been the first, maybe only, person they’ve told.”  
     Their methods don’t hurt people like mine do. Up until you, Laurens, no one has cared if I stopped being a part of their life unless we are lab partners or beta one another’s work. You are the first person I truly called ‘friend’ in this godforsaken world, and the one of three people I’ve meant it, wholly, truly, with in the time since we first wrote to one another.  
     Even with all of this in mind, I cannot begin to express how deeply sorry I am for having abandoned you even whilst you beseeched me to speak, to write, and said, I don’t know what to do when we aren’t talking. I don’t know either, Laurens, and I don’t believe I’ve ever known. How does one say, oh, life is the same now, it’s fine, when one has known true partnership?  
     And, as I believe you have not read the note I thrust upon you this afternoon, here I must expose myself to the mercy of that partnership, bare the truth of myself and my feelings for you. My full name is Alexander Hamilton, John. I am a coward when it comes to you. I knew you to be Jack, John, _Laurens_ the night we fought the misogynistic shit at Brandywine. True to form, to spite and a deep-rooted need to be my own God, I lashed out in the form of silence on all fronts. There was no maliciousness, no cruel intent, just a child and his panic, his unable to comprehend that the person with words he’s adored for years is the same man he shares barbs and laughter with each morning, and whose smile he is loath to forget.  
     You are _everything_ , John Laurens. I understand if you don’t wish to tolerate my company on any level after this email, what I have done to prevent you from knowing my full name and self is reprehensible and not worthy of your trust. Please know I am so sorry for hurting you. We have our silences in the past but when I asked you to please let me know you were alive, I expressed worry, you always answered. I failed you in this. I failed in many ways and for all those things, and your hurt, your distress, I expect your rage and hope for your forgiveness.  
     I would do all in my power to earn that, John. Your forgiveness, your friendship. Bond or not, we have no obligation to one another save for that we make for ourselves. If you find yourself unable or unwilling to grant me those things, I understand and bear no ill will. I am not so easy to forgive, myself, and it is a nature I wholly recognize in others.  
     You are always an exception to my rules, Laurens. You always have been. I have a suspicion that, even if another twenty years pass before we speak again, you will always be the exception.  
     Yours, most sincerely,  
     A Ham  
  
     P.S. I just saw you emailed me five seconds ago and I am emailing this anyway because I must not be a coward at least once in my life  
     P.P.S. if you haven’t read the note I gave you, don’t. It’s terribly written and my penmanship is horrible.

~*~

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject** : IMPORTANT  
     I need to talk to you. It's not about Alex. Well, not really about Alex, it's about us, and I need to talk to you. I know you don't like talking about feelings or me or whatever but I'm kind of freaking out and I need to say this. Don’t ditch me with this, Hamilton.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From** : Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** It's okay  
     Call or email? It's okay, Laurens, it's all good. I'm here.  
     … btw have you read the other email I sent?

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** I hate everything  
     I need to talk to you first.  
     call plz. here's my number in case you don't have it anymore: 843-827-1782 

~*~

John steels himself for the worst and presses _send_. His eyes flicker to the new messages in his inbox, one from Peggy and Hams each, and he wavers against clicking either of them. It’s nearly midnight, he’s fucking restless, and his mind is moving too quickly for comfort. This, God, he hates this. He hates the unknowing.

Does Hams know it’s him? Does he remember the dream? Why hasn’t he told John?

Maybe the same reason John hasn’t told him yet? Is there a John person in Hams life and he’s just not said anything?

 _Pour Some Sugar on Me_ pulls John abruptly from his thoughts. Hams’ ringtone and _Alexander H_ on the screen is enough to startle John into answering rather than panic and possibly not pick up. He fumbles with his phone, clumsy despite it being a phone for fucks sake, and answers it without dropping anything.

“Alex? Why the fuck are you awake? I’m waiting on a call, I can’t talk right now,” John says in a rush, stomach twisting all over again. It feels wrong, off. Something isn’t good about this. Every nerve in him stands on end, waiting. “I thought I made myself clear this afternoon.”

Alex sucks in a quick breath. Then, in measured tones, he says, “You asked me to call, Laurens.”

The world drops out from underneath Johns feet. He’s sitting in bed, in his sleep boxers, the lights off, world dark, and six words pull everything away from him. John tries to speak, tries to _think_ , and nothing happens. Something disbelieving and hurt chokes him, binds him to the spot, voiceless.

“Um. How about those Bond dreams?”

John hangs up.

~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From** : Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** JOHN. JOHN  
     ALEX IS HAMS MY PHONE BROKE AND IT’S GOING TO BE TWO DAYS FOR A NEW ONE  
     I REPEAT: **_ALEX IS HAMS  
_**      Since he apparently didn’t speak I’m fucking telling you UGH and angelica said you ran away after like two minutes talking

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From** : Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** w t f  
     …swear to fuck, do not tell me you knew this, peggy.  
     And how does angelica know.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From** : Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: w t f  
Fuck my life, you read it after you found out, didn’t you? And she works with you, of course she loitered and spied.  
     I’m legit sorry I didn’t tell you, J, just that would’ve been a kind of outing I seriously don’t like to do, it’s someone’s identity and I was going to if he didn’t tell you today – which I did – and it might not help you at all and I’m sorry. Are you okay?  
     Fuck it’s two in the morning dude, how long have you been sitting on this?

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From** : Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: re: w t f  
     Ok. You have an out for the outing thing. I get it. Still angry. Not at you. I can’t handle this shit.  
     2hrs.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From** : Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: w t f  
     Do you want me to come over?

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From** : Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: re: w t f  
     Sleep is needed. Go to bed. Talk to you about shit in the morning?

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From** : Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: re: re: w t f  
     Always.

~*~

There’s no return email by morning, no angry texts, no John calling and leaving raging voicemails. Alex dreams of nothing and wakes up exhausted. While he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the silence allows him to work through the knot in his chest.

The low simmer of relief shouldn’t be there, but it is. He’s told John, at least once, or at least John knows now. He’s sent the email, there’s the note Alex simultaneously hopes John hasn’t read and will read. Aaron’s already gone by the time Alex rolls out of bed, a blessing, as it means he doesn’t see the distress writ over Alex’s face, nor does it give Aaron opening to ask why Alex snuck to the hallway at midnight with his phone. It gives Alex leave to dress and leave without talking to anyone, to get coffee, and go to work before he needs to interact with many, if any, people.

“You look like shit,” is Herc’s greeting, cheerful as ever. He eyes the Dunkin Donuts cups Alex has, then studies Alex himself. “You told him.”

“He found out?” Alex sets the cups down by the register and reaches over it to grab his apron. “I tried to tell him, like I said, even shoved my note in his hand. Then I emailed him but he emailed me at the same time asking me to call, said he’d read it after we talked.”

“Oh boy.”

“I called him Laurens and he hung up on me.”

“You’re in the shit,” Herc pats him on the back. “Now it’s time and someone’s gotta shovel it.”

Alex pauses, mid-apron tying, and glares at him. “That was gross, Mulligan.”

“Get to work,” Alex is blown a kissy face and a sympathetic back pat once more before they do, actually, get to work.

Hercules sings for the most part, occasionally pulling Alex into idle talk. It’s a quiet day, most of it prep to make place settings for an upcoming wedding. They want different settings and flowers for each table, thank fuck, means that the world doesn’t end if the tulips don’t match or a kind of flower runs out. Alex drowns himself in coming up with inventive settings that will match the rest of the wedding design enough to make it cohesive. Herc is better at it than he is, of course, but Alex tries.

The lull, peace, and denial of his worries stops at noon. The rattle of the door alerts them to a customer, both heads rising from their duties, and Alex waves Herc back to his chair.

“I’ve got it. Keep sketching or doing whatever magic shit you do,” he calls out behind him, already heading to the front of the store. “Just don’t steal my ideas.”

Mulligan laughs. John does not. Neither does Alex.

Alex freezes in place at the first sight of Laurens standing next to their counter, his face a mask of reined in fury, face bright and ears pink. God, he has so many freckles, and that is not something Alex should focus on now.

“John,” he manages to croak out. “Hi.”

Laurens clenches his hands into fists, beautiful still in his anger. He’s just off work, must be, he smells of pastries and coffee even with a few feet between them. The dark skinny jeans are unfair.

“You _changed your contact information,_ ” Laurens says through gritted teeth. His eyes narrow. “You saw I had you under Hams, you went in and changed it, what the _fuck shit_ is wrong with you?”

Alex flinches back, an indignant flush rising in his cheeks. “I panicked! What was I supposed to do after all of that? Say, Oh hey, this is me, do I know you from class?”

“Yes!” John shouts the word, a sharp bark of his hurt, his anger. Alex tries to blame John’s temper except that he’s not _wrong_. He isn’t, not about this. “Yes, _Ham_ , you fucking should have. That would’ve been nice.”

Footsteps sound behind Alex, the heavy and quick movements of Herc. He stands just out of sight, Alex things, hopes, and doesn’t intervene. If Laurens throws a punch, at least now Alex has back up.

“I’m sorry,” Alex’s voice cracks. “I tried to tell you, with the note and- “

“Stop it,” John cuts him off with words and a slash of his hand in the air. Alex flinches again at the quick movement even though it’s nowhere near him. John scowls, pushes his hands into his pockets. “You went home and we _texted_ , Alex. You lied to me, _Peggy_ lied to me because she refuses to out someone by identity or sexuality or anything, and that’s _fucked_ up.”

“I wrote you tons of emails! They all came out garbage until last night, I’m no good when it comes to – to risking things.” Alex shakes his head, hand waving in the air between them. Indicating _them_. “I wanted to make this okay. I wanted – I just wanted to make everything okay. You’re important, Laurens.”

“Don’t call me that.” Teeth flash, a feral thing some may call a smile if feeling generous. The only thing Alex calls it is angry. “Ever. This is not ‘okay’, Alexander. _We_ are not okay. Taking a minute to tell me is one thing but my _phone_? Listening to me panic over ‘Alex’ and then blowing me off? Fuck you. Fuck this.”

“John- “

“No,” John steps back, shoulders hunching. Every inch of him screams tension. If Alex reaches out, he can touch him, hold onto some part of John to explain himself. … If Alex reaches out, it will likely end in bloodshed and Herc’s intervention. He keeps his hands to himself. “Fuck this. I’ve been through one abusive relationship, like hell am I going to keep on this track, dreams be damned. Just leave me alone, Alexander. I can’t do this.”

“I’m not _Francis_ , this isn’t that,” Alex pleads, rubbing his hands together and tucking them behind his back. “Will you just read my email?”

“Go step on a Lego,” John spits the words like acid, ridiculous as they may sound out of context. _It’s what I tell people I want to throttle sometimes,_ Laurens once wrote, _Legos were created by the devil._ He scoffs at Alex’s soft noise of hurt, turns on his heels, and walks out the door.

He doesn’t slam it. Alex wishes he had.

“I fucked up,” he says, slowly, somehow making words around the numbness in him. “Like, I really fucked up.”

Herc wraps an arm around Alex and pulls him in for a side hug. Alex sags against him.

“Maybe, yeah,” Herc rumbles, squeezing him gently. “I’m proud of you for doing it and not running off. You’re brave in a fight, Alex, but I know it’s rough to deal with… that.”

All Alex can do is nod.

~*~

 **Week 11: Midterms**  
Next week is midterms, class. Attached is a study guide that touches on all the subjects we’ve discussed. I strongly urge you to review past forum questions and feel free to read all my former posts to buck up for it.  
If you have any questions, please ask.  
You have until 11:59PM on October 26 th to complete the test at the link below.  
Peggy Schuyler requested that I announce the GSA Game Night fundraiser on October 29th in George King Hall between the hours of 2pm and 10pm. However, I have informed her that it is inappropriate for a professor to do so and refused to give information regarding the prizes, free food and drink, or any other delightful activities that may or may not be occurring.  
I know you will all do wonderfully on your midterms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally the first multi-chaptered fanfic I've finished since my fanfiction.net days, the ones with Magic Knight Rayearth and Gundam Wing self inserts. I've completed one shots, original short stories, NaNo novels and, now, Drop Some Knowledge.
> 
> It's not a finished _story_ because: sequel but the fic about Hams and Laurens and how they meet is complete. The sequel is about how Hams and Laurens live as Alex and John, and maybe Alex even getting his shit together.
> 
> ... okay to be fair, I did a self insert in this story too. In Alex's unfinished email to John regarding self-sabotage, he talks about a friend with the brain stuff and their defense mechanism. That's me :D String talks about mental illnesses, along with her own, and _no one is surprised ever_. 
> 
> Y'all have been the best readers, reviewers, kudo'ers, and humans I could've asked for. Without the occasional "I NEED THIS LIKE LIFEBLOOD", I don't know if this would've been completed or how quickly. I hope you enjoyed DSK and, if so, will keep reading about my dumb boys, girls, and other aligned humans in Throwing Away My Shot. 
> 
> Please hit me up at stringthe0ri.tumblr.com - I'll be posting screenshots of my DSK notes, including the plot lines that could've been, scenes that never were, and the disjointed fashion of how I actually make shit. Have questions? Headcanons? Send me an ask :) I will always answer them because all of you are worth it.


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